Shadow of Eden (2 page)

He closed his eyes and tried to relax. The headache had gotten steadily worse the last few days, and because of it, he hadn’t slept last night.

A sudden wave of nausea ejected his stomach contents in a gush, spraying the mirror with yellow liquid and pill fragments, which quickly ran down into the sink. Palmer leaned over, spitting out more of the bile and cursing the headache. No more pills. Not now.
Twenty minutes
, he thought.
I can hold out that long
.

Palmer cleaned himself up and returned to relieve Oliveros. “How’s the weather?” he asked McElroy, easing back into his seat.

“It’s closing in fast, but we just got initial clearance,” said McElroy. “We should be down before the worst hits.”

“Good, I . . .” His arm twitched and he was back in the inky Vietnam sky.
Anti-aircraft tracers streaked past the cockpit window and he heard the staccato screech of metal piercing metal. I’m hit! Fire! He twisted the fire control levers and then realized he had to punch out . . .

“Jesus, Ralph, that’s the worse one yet.” McElroy’s voice cut through the flashback.

Palmer’s eyes cleared. His right arm had ceased shaking. “It’s nothing. See?” Palmer held up his hand. “It’s gone.” But the terror unleashed by his vision hung on.

“Christ. Better have that checked out when we get in. No, better yet, switch with Marvin to take us down.” McElroy’s look at Palmer was sharpened by the instrument glow in the dark cockpit.

“Look, I’m fine.”

McElroy’s glare tightened. “I don’t believe you. I’ve watched those tremor things get worse and I actually lost you on this last one.” He shook his head. “No, it’s way past time.”

McElroy was right, of course, but Palmer wouldn’t give in. “Look, I’ve landed at Dulles a thousand times,” he proposed. “You keep the plane.”

“Not good enough. We’ve got weather up ahead. I want Marvin up here. And you back there.”

Palmer shrugged. “You’re not going to get it. So, are you going to fly the plane or not? You can land in this weather.”

McElroy pulled his water bottle from its holder and took a long drink. Swallowing, he fixed Palmer with narrowed, considering eyes. “OK, I’ll keep the plane. Ready for initial descent,” McElroy said, dialing the new heading into the computer.

Palmer looked at the readings. “I confirm.” This last vision had been so real; he could still smell the burning fuel. Maybe he would go see the doctor and get a physical. It would probably not amount to much, but it would make his wife happy and he’d get something for his dammed headache.

McElroy flipped on the PA to notify the passengers of their approach.

Palmer’s right arm twitched, signaling another flashback. He grabbed it with his left hand. By focusing on the instruments in front of him, he managed to suppress his visions, but the effort left him breathing hard. McElroy gave him a sidewise look and continued his public address.

Increasingly unsettled, Palmer reconsidered switching with the backup pilot. This was not safe and he knew it. He waited until McElroy finished and turned off the intercom. “OK, you’re right. I’ll call Marvin.”

He reached for the intercom, but his arm leapt with powerful irregular shakes. A rush of terror engulfed him as he plunged back into the dark Vietnam jungle.
He saw flashes of gunfire directly in front of him. Run! No! Not this time, dammit. Not this time, you fucking gooks!
He snapped his seatbelt off.

“Ralph!” McElroy saw Palmer’s wild look. “It’s OK. Settle down.”

Palmer sprang out of his seat and snatched the fire extinguisher from its buckles. With a fierce look, he raised it over his head, holding it like a short baseball bat.

“Ralph! Stop!” McElroy twisted around straining to see Palmer behind him. He threw his arms up as Palmer swung down. McElroy’s left wrist snapped at the impact. The next strike landed solidly on his head. He screamed.

Palmer struck again. He raised the extinguisher once more, but the copilot had slumped in his seat harness, no longer posing a threat. Palmer lowered his arms. The extinguisher slipped from his grasp and clanged to the floor.

Chapter 2

“D
amn.”

Secretary of State Linda Resnick swore at the ringing phone, more for what she feared it meant, than for the early hour. She felt for the receiver in the dark.

“Yes?” Her voice was husky with sleep. She squinted to see the green-glowing clock radio digits. It was 4:06 A.M.

“Secretary Resnick?” She identified the voice of Larry Calhoun, her director of intelligence.

“Yes,” she repeated.

“You told us to call if anything breaks out in Hong Kong, you know, the Falun Gong demonstration.”

It
was
Hong Kong. All sleepiness evaporated. “And?”

“They’ve shut down the media and the army’s surrounding the park where the demonstrators are. Something big’s going to pop.”

Damn, damn, damn.
“Okay, I’m on my way.” The Secretary of State swung her legs out of bed and sat up. As her feet searched for her slippers, she tried to find some reason to think there would be a peaceful end to the massive protest, but she doubted her own hopes with a cynicism that surprised her. She walked into her closet and began looking through her dresses for something warm and comfortable. The situation would turn bloody; she just knew it, and today, of all days.

It was Thanksgiving.

Chapter 3

I
n the galley, behind the cockpit, Oliveros heard muffled shouts. He frowned and stood still for a minute, but did not hear anything more. He looked into the passenger cabin, but all was quiet. Unsettled, he picked up the intercom and buzzed the cockpit.

There was no answer.

He turned the corner and rapped hard on the cockpit door. When there was no response, he tried to open it, but it was locked. He turned the handle and pushed his shoulder into it to no effect.

Oliveros thought hard. When Captain Palmer had gone to the bathroom moments ago, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Why, then, would they ignore his intercom? The plane was flying straight and stable and there didn’t seem to be any emergency. Still, the shouts had been unmistakable.

Palmer dropped back into his seat and rubbed his eyes. It had felt so real, like he was actually back in Vietnam, back in the putrid jungle, running from the North Vietnamese. But this time, he had counter-attacked, charging the gun flashes instead of running. He had found and killed a Vietcong; he was now safe.

Palmer opened his eyes and looked over at his copilot. McElroy was slumped over in his seat. Puzzled, Palmer leaned over. “Joe? Joe, what’s up?” He saw the blood oozing in rivulets down McElroy’s unconscious face. “Oh my God. What have I done?” As Palmer clutched his throbbing head, he became aware of a hammering at the door.

Oliveros pounded on the reinforced door with his fist. Abruptly, the electronic door latch clicked and he pushed it open. In the dim nighttime cockpit, he saw Captain Palmer holding his head.

“Captain Palmer?”

Palmer turned and looked at him with unfocused eyes. Something was not right. Then, with a shock, Oliveros saw the bloody scalp of the slumped second officer. Running back to the hallway, he grabbed the intercom and buzzed the main cabin downstairs.

“Carol here.”

“Carol, get Marvin Verness up here right now. It’s an emergency.”

“Good God. Okay, I’m on it.”

Next, he hit the overhead intercom button. “If there are any doctors on board, please report to the second deck galley, immediately.”

The announcement awoke Steve James with a start. He had just dozed off from writing down his thoughts following his private meeting in Edinburgh. Irritated, he opened his eyes and stretched. A male flight attendant stood at the front of the compartment anxiously looking around at the passengers. Gradually, Steve processed the words.
They needed a doctor
. He hoped it wasn’t serious. He stiffly unfolded his lanky body and stood up. Smoothing his rumpled white dress shirt, he approached the flight attendant.

“I’m a doctor—a neurologist, if that makes a difference.”

“Perfect. Follow me.”

Steve followed him into the dim cockpit, ducking under the doorway. His eyes swiftly took in the condition of the two men.
Jesus.
Steve bent over the copilot. He found a strong carotid pulse and saw that the man’s breathing was normal. Steve’s fingers explored the bloody scalp and found two lacerations, but no skull depression.

He glanced at Oliveros. “I think he’ll be okay.” He then turned to the pilot. “Sir, how are you?”

The pilot looked at him through bloodshot eyes. “I thought I killed him. A goddamn flashback. Is he going to be . . .” His eyes glanced behind Steve. “Marvin. Thank God.”

A medium-built man in a pilot’s uniform had joined them.

“What the hell happened?”

“Captain Verness, let me—” Oliveros began.

“Never mind,” Verness snapped. “Ralph, it’s time to get out of here.” He pushed Steve towards the copilot. “Look after him.”

Palmer’s right arm started shaking and his gaze turned glassy. To Steve, he looked like an actively hallucinating schizophrenic.

“I’m hit! Fire! Fire!” Palmer yelled. He reached up and yanked all four fire extinguisher levers.