what I thought. That’s what I’d thought ever since I’d left him and his wife in their house.
He put his hand on my arm. “I’ve asked the president of South Korea to order the release of Captain Whitehall. And I’ve asked General Spears to drop all charges.”
A big breath of air poured out of my mouth.
“I am not trying to hide my son’s relationship with Whitehall. Not any longer. But it’s best for both our nations if we simply say my son was murdered by the North Koreans, and Whitehall was framed, just as your protesters were murdered by the North Koreans. It would be best for our alliance.”
I wanted to say something meaningful, something to take away his pain, to make this easier for him.
But all I could get out was, “It’s true, Mr. Minister. Your son was murdered by the North Koreans.”
He nodded his head in the knowing way some very wise old people have, and he gently patted my arm and left.
Then General Spears and Brandewaite came back in. They stood beside my bed for a long moment. Brandewaite said, “I just want you to know, Drummond, that I bear no hard feelings toward you over all of this.”
I wasn’t exactly sure I heard that right. I mean, the last time I checked, I was the one who was supposed to have hard feelings against him. But I guess that’s what it takes to be a diplomat. Always distort the facts to your own advantage. Or is that a lawyer? Whatever.
Even General Spears seemed to catch the idiocy of it, because he waited till Brandewaite had his back turned and was headed toward the door before he rolled his eyes, and then he did this little jerky motion with his right hand that most folks would interpret to be a fairly disrespectful gesture.
Once Brandewaite was gone, the general reached into his pocket and withdrew a medal with a fancy ribbon on it. He placed it on the bed right beside me. “The President asked me to give you this. He said to tell you that the nation is very proud and appreciative of your efforts.”
I glanced at the medal for a moment, and he seemed to be at a loss for words. He finally squeezed my arm. “Sean, nobody’s more proud of what you just accomplished than me, but as far as the world is concerned, this whole thing never happened. There was an assassination attempt and you saved the Secretary’s life, but the true facts will never be known.”
I nodded like it made no difference to me, and really I guess it didn’t.
Then he paused for a moment before he said, “Son, most people would think a little piece of ribbon doesn’t seem like much for what you did, but in our profession it’s everything.”
Then he spun around and walked out and left me fingering the tiny medal he’d left me. I stared at it, and damn if it didn’t look just like the Distinguished Service Cross, the second highest award for heroism.
But maybe I was just imagining all that happened. I was doped up to the max, and I’d been beaten, stabbed, and shot, then shot again – and the mind does play funny tricks.
CHAPTER 50
The physical therapy was every bit as wicked as I had dreaded it would be. They actually transported me back to Walter Reed Army Medical Center on a medevac plane, keeping me happily doped up till we got there. Then the nazis at Walter Reed got their first look at me, took the drugs away, and my life turned into pure hell.
The Army’s idea of medicine can be summed up by that old maxim “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” Phrased another way, “If you let a knife get dull, it takes a lot longer to resharpen than one kept sharp.”
If you want to hear more of these inane sayings, I could go on, because in my six-week stay at Walter Reed I heard about two million of them from the sadists who made me get up every morning and make my own bed, who brought me Jell-O and actually made me eat it, and thousands of other unspeakable things. My personal favorite was the 250-pound female nurse who showed up on my third day, deadly intent on rolling me over and giving me an enema. I put up one hell of a fight. I swear I did. But alas, I lost.
On my sixth night, an official State Department courier showed up with a handwritten note from the Secretary of State himself, thanking me for saving his life and inviting me to stop by for a private dinner after I got out of the hospital. I thought about sending back a note saying I was pretty busy and wasn’t sure I could make it. That lasted about a nanosecond. Like I’d ever turn down a free meal. And besides, I was dying to share my views about the world with the Secretary; and since I’d saved his life, he’d have to sit and politely listen. How often does life offer you a chance like that?
A few days later, I got a very nice note from Tommy Whitehall, thanking me profusely for everything I did. I can’t say we’d gotten to know each other well, and the circumstances of our relationship were certainly awkward, if that’s the right word to use. I did like him, though. And I thought he was a damned fine officer, too. If I were still an infantry officer, and I was getting ready to go into battle, I’d love to have a guy like Tommy on my flank.
A few days after that, I got an equally nice note from Allie saying she really enjoyed working with me and hoped I was feeling better. She actually gave me her address and phone number in case I ever needed anything. And I decided that maybe my first order of business once I got out of this hellhole was to go look her up and take her to dinner. I mean, she’s not the type I usually take to dinner, since she’s a little tall for me, and there’s that spiky hair, and I knew we’d draw some odd stares, but when you get right down to it, the honor and pleasure would be all mine.
Maria and Allie and Whitehall, and everything else about this case, had certainly forced me to do a lot of hard thinking about whether gays should be allowed to serve openly in the ranks. On the face of it, why not? Is this country really so rich in patriots that it can afford to turn down any Americans who volunteer to spend a few precious years of their lives in its service? And hey, do you ever hear anyone bitching about collecting taxes from gays who admit they’re gays? Right.
On the other hand, I’m just not sure us heteros can handle it. Maybe it’s our problem and not theirs. But it’s still a problem.
Imelda dropped by a few times. She brought my mail and a bottle of castor oil she insisted would cure all ills. She can be fusty and old-fashioned that way. The third time, she sat beside my bed and heckled me to quit faking it and get my ass back to work. She’d never admit it, but I knew she missed having me around.
And what
Then one day I watched on TV as the defense minister of North Korea paid a visit to the South Koreans, and every spinmeister on every talk show began yabbering about the surprisingly sudden breakthrough in relations between these two implacable foes. They called it a miracle, but it wasn’t any miracle.
I mean, North Korea’s lonely and broke and has millions of starving and unhappy people, and no matter how stubborn it is, any idiot can tell the clock’s running out on their future. What I figured was, Choi’s plot was a last- ditch attempt to have it their way. And had it worked, North Korea’s defense minister might still be visiting South Korea, only in a slightly different capacity – at the head of his three-million-man army. Of course, there were no guarantees it wouldn’t eventually end up that way, but the chances were suddenly much smaller.
On the second day of the fourth week, just when I thought I’d go crazy with boredom, I got my first glimpse of hope and salvation. She came waltzing into my room, wearing her usual pinstriped pantsuit with a bulging shopping bag under her arm. She didn’t say anything at first. Instead she grabbed a chair, went over and closed the door, then she actually propped the chair underneath the knob so nobody could peek in.
I sat up in bed and shyly hiked the sheets around my chest.
She walked over and fell onto the edge of my bed. “Hello, Attila.”
I smiled. “Hey, Moonbeam.”
She smiled back. “Wait’ll you see what I brought you.”
She reached into the bag and withdrew guess what? A magnum-size bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. No
