Chapter 8
Varakov stood beyond the abandoned astronomy museum, on the spot of land, the rocks beyond it separating him from Lake Michigan. For once it was not too cold, though he had yet to find himself able to describe the lake wind as warm.
'Comrade general?'
General Ishmael Varakov recognized the voice—warm, athletic, resonating—somehow just the thought of Colonel Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy made his feet hurt all the more.
'Yes, colonel.' He still did not turn around.
'Have there been any private communiques from your niece, Major Tiemerovna, Comrade general?'
'No—she is involved in an operation of the most delicate nature even as we speak.'
'The Eden Project, Comrade general? For this is the prerogative of the KGB and a KGB agent involved in research on this matter should be under my direct control rather than that of the Army—'
'I have put her on detached duty to my specific command, colonel—she is responsible only to me. As is the nature of her sensitive mission.'
'Infiltrating the American resistance perhaps?'
'Colonel—you can make as many lateral references as you wish—but I will divulge no further information at this time. Suffice it to say, her mission is on behalf of the
welfare of all.'
'Comrade general—though such an action would grieve me greatly, if no news of the major's activities is forthcoming, I shall be left with no other choice than to contact Moscow.'
'I am sure you have already contacted Moscow, colonel—were I in your position, that is exactly what I should do. If Moscow becomes sufficiently worried, I will be contacted regarding the matter. In the meantime —'
'Yes, Comrade general?'
'I come here for a few moments of solitude, colonel—' Varakov began to walk, the wind, he reasoned, drowning out the click of the heels from Rozhdestvenskiy's spit-shined boots.
Varakov repeated the words he had used to describe Natalia's mission—but this time to the wind rather than the commander of the North American KGB—'She is involved in an operation of the most delicate nature.' He smiled, his feet hurting though to the point where he was ready to sit down. 'Delicate operation indeed.'
Chapter 9
Whole blood—and while hers was being typed, Rourke had coordinated with the ship's doctor, Rourke already working with transfusions for the injured trooper who, like Natalia, but less in real danger, had lost too much blood.
He looked at the name tag on the pharmacist mate's white jacket. 'Kelly—get the blood pressure cuff inflated to one hundred millimeters of mercury so I can distend and locate the vessels.'
Rourke began the same procedure with the soldier—there had been no time to change the man, Rourke for the first time read his name from the sewn tag on the fatigues. 'Henderson—if you can hear me, you son of a bitch, we're gonna save your life now.' Rourke secured the velcro closures on the blood pressure cuff, then started pumping air. He ran his hand along the inside of the forearm, selecting a likely looking vein. He pumped up a little more so he wouldn't lose it.
'You ready, Kelly?'
'Yes, Doctor,' the pharmacist's mate answered. 'I never did a direct transfusion before.'
'You'll get the hang of it,' Rourke nodded. 'Got the tube in?' He looked but didn't wait for an answer. 'Secure that with some adhesive tape,' then he looked at the donor. An ordinary seaman—his name was White. 'Mr. White, I'd be lying if I said this won't hurt at all—kind of a numbing sensation. We're just gonna get a pint or so from you.
Afterward, in case I forget—go He down, get some orange juice into you. And thanks for volunteering.'
'Yes, sir,' the seaman nodded, not looking at the tube now extending from his arm.
Rourke cranked down the table on which the injured man—Henderson—was lying, to get a better flow. He made the veinapuncture on Henderson's forearm, readying the tube—it was already filling, nearing the end. As it did, Rourke attached the tubing to the needle, his left hand already starting to deflate the blood pressure cuff on Henderson's arm.
'Losing a little pressure in White's blood pressure cuff, Doctor,' Kelly murmured.
