'Thanks. As you may remember, a lot, if not most, people with locked-in syndrome retain some small degree of voluntary control over eye movement or eyelid function. We know Camilla has had neither of those. We need to determine if that's changed. Additionally, we need a functional PET to determine if she's experiencing sensory perceptions-vision, hearing, touch-the whole gamut.'
Any specific tests or protocol?'
'You pick it. We need to know whether she is aware and conscious even if she is unable to communicate.'
Flowers's breath caught, echoing my own of a few minutes ago. 'I never imagined in my worst nightmare it could come to this.'
'I know the feeling.'
'Okay. I'm on it now. Should I call you back on your cell?'
'Uh-huh. And could you upload the new scans as soon as you can.' I explained my ability to retrieve them. 'If for some reason you can't get hold of me, you can call Dr. Tyrone Freedman here at Greenwood Hospital.' I read the number and extension off the phone. Tyrone also offered his cell number, which I passed along before ringing off.
'This is really deep,' Freedman said.
I turned slowly and looked up at Freedman. 'People with locked-in syndrome usually retain their ability to see, hear, feel emotions, understand spoken language, analyze complex thoughts-everything cognitively and emotionally, but all the wiring to their muscles that allows them to interact with their environment doesn't work. I'm terrified this patient's consciousness has awakened inside a black void without sight, sound, or other senses, perhaps feeling pain without any ability to express the feeling or do anything to decrease it. Something like being buried alive, but without the compassion of death to look forward to.'
'Oh, man.' Freedman's voice was dull, flat, and low as the implications played across his face. 'I imagine hell would be a lot like that.'
He opened his mouth, but before he spoke, his pager went off. He plucked it off his belt.
'Oh, great,' he said as he read the text message. 'All hands on deck. We've got all our ambulances filled with incoming gunshot wounds, but we don't usually staff up until after it's dark.'
He turned and headed for the far end of the narrow, cramped room. 'We can use all the help we can get,' he said. 'If you're up for it, follow me to the scrub room and I'll introduce you to the chief.'
I rushed along behind him.
The wail of approaching sirens quickly disappeared beneath the urgent conversations in the scrub room. Freedman introduced me to trauma unit chief Clifford Scarborough, a tall, dark-haired man built like an NFL linebacker.
'I've read some of your stuff,' Scarborough said as we soaped up to our elbows. 'We're likely to have head wounds.'
'I'm up for it.'
'Good. It's been a bad day for serious trauma,' Scarborough said. 'Normally, we stabilize the most serious and chopper them down to University Med Center in Jackson, but the whole damn region's had a rash of incidents. There's not a free helicopter available. You may need to do more than help me get these people ready to ship.'
'Whatever I can do.'
'Okay then, suit up.' He pointed toward a pile of fresh folded scrubs.
I changed, and scrubbed at my hands, forearms, and elbows. I had my gloves on by the time the triage nurse stuck her head in and said she had two she thought were DOA and six more in a hurry to get there. I took a full- face splatter shield from the scrub room nurse and adjusted it to my head as I pushed through the double doors leading to the emergency room.
The corridor beyond was packed with police and paramedics. Along the wall, two young men lay on gurneys: tall, heavily muscled, and way too young to be so completely inert. Blood dripped significantly onto the tiled floor. Uniforms filled the corridor with a blue hover as police and EMTs in latex gloves moved among their charges, working to keep more life from leaking out and on guard for violence and escape.
The doors by the ambulance dock exploded inward with two more gurneys, followed by Jasmine in a white silk blouse blossoming red with fresh blood, which covered her face and arms and matted her hair.
CHAPTER 39
Thirty-eight thousand feet over the unremarkable topography of South Dakota, Braxton's chartered 737 anonymously sketched contrails on a cornflower sky. In the front of the aircraft, tousled and rumpled reporters slumped in the forward seats and spoke wearily among themselves. The predawn takeoff from Reagan National and the three lightning-quick campaign stops in Buffalo, Duluth, and Fargo had exacted their toll.
At the rear of the aircraft in the off-limits area outside the General's private compartment, Daniel Gabriel looked down at the towering storm clouds and chaffed at putting 'retired' after the lieutenant general in his title.
He had devoted his life to the Army. His only marriage had lasted less than a year when his wife realized the military was a mistress with which she could not compete. Now, with his retirement papers grinding through the DOD bureaucracy, the change in his life gathered like the same thunderstorms assembling themselves over the prairie below.
'Retirement getting to you?' Gabriel turned as Braxton settled into a seat across the aisle. 'Yes, it disturbed me as well, for months.'
Gabriel felt half-dressed under Braxton's gaze.
'Yes, sir,' Gabriel said. 'That's most of it.'
'I thought so.' The General paused. 'What's the rest of it?'
Gabriel looked back out the window for a thoughtful moment before returning his gaze to Braxton.
'When I was making some last rounds at the Pentagon, I paid a visit to Laura LaHaye.'
'I know.'
'Well, sir, I'm, uh'-Gabriel searched for the correct word-'not entirely comfortable with all the implications of the Enduring Valor project.'
'What bothers you most?'
'The disclosure part, mostly I suppose.'
'Disclosure?'
'To the men. The soldiers.' Gabriel searched Braxton's face for a clue, but found nothing there but encouragement. 'Doesn't giving them medication without telling them leave us open to charges we're performing medical experiments on people without their informed consent?'
Braxton nodded slowly 'Dan, we have a life-and-death struggle to make sure our forces win every battle. If we had to have a public debate on every damned thing we do, getting a signed disclosure on every damn vitamin formula we hand out to the troops, we'd never get anything done, and whatever we accomplished would be out there for all our enemies to copy. Informed consent works fine for civilians, but when it comes to war, it would only cost the lives of a lot of brave men and women.'
'But-'
'But nothing. Look, do you suppose we're telling everybody the nerve-gas antidotes we pass out contain a lot more than atropine? Or that MREs in a combat zone contain top-secret formulations designed to get the best possible performance from our boys? Which is why we don't sell those particular formulations to the public.'
Gabriel nodded. 'But I understand Enduring Valor has a history of side effects.'
Braxton's face tightened for a single frame of reality, then smoothed out so fast Gabriel didn't really see it happen; it still made him anxious.
'Side effects?' Braxton said. 'I can tell you about side effects.' His hand traced the famous scar on his face. 'Before God gave me this, artillery fire made me urinate on myself, son. But God struck me and changed me and left a mark telling others they can triumph over their shortcomings as well. Now that's a side effect of being wounded,
