The Atlantis Gene: A Thriller (34 page)

Several hours later, Kate was securing the last bandage to David’s chest. The bullet lay in a putrid pool of blood and pus in a bowl on the table. Milo had performed admirably, not as well as an OR nurse, but his zen countenance had gone a long way, especially in keeping Kate’s nerves in check.

When she finished with the bandages, Kate ran a hand across David’s chest and exhaled deeply. Now, all she could do was wait. She leaned back in the alcove and watched his chest rise and fall, the motion almost hard to discern.

After a few moments, she opened the journal and began reading.

June 3rd, 1917

“How about now?” Dr. Carlisle says as he presses the ink pen to my leg.

“Yeah,” I say through gritted teeth.

He slides the pen down and jabs again. “And here?”

“Like the dickens.”

He straightens and contemplates the results of his prodding.

Before he looked at the leg, he spent some time collecting a “history.” It was a welcome departure from the field surgeons who looked at the injury, never at the man, and usually proceeded without a word. I told him I was 26, in otherwise good health, had no “dependencies,” and had gotten the wound in a tunnel that collapsed under the Western Front. He nodded and performed a thorough examination, noting that the injury wasn’t that different to what he saw in miners and sportsmen in his practice.

I wait for his verdict, wondering if I should say something.

The city doctor scratches his head and takes a seat by the bed. “I have to say, I agree with what the army surgeons told you. It would have been better to have taken it off then, probably just below the knee, or at least that’s where I would have started.”

“What about now?” I dread the answer.

“Now… I’m not sure. You won’t walk on it again, or at least not normally. Mostly it will depend on how much pain you have. There’s a lot of nerve damage, no doubt. I would recommend you try walking, as best you can manage, for the next month or two. If the pain is unbearable, as I suspect it will be, we’ll take it below the knee. Most of the feeling is in the feet; there are more nerves there. That will give you some relief.” As if anticipating my distress he adds. “We’re not just fighting the pain here. Vanity is a factor. No man wants to lose half his leg, but it doesn’t make him any less of a man. It’s best to be practical. You’ll be thankful you were. And I suppose the last consideration is what type of work you’ll be doing, Captain, no Major, was it? Never seen a Major your age.”

“You make rank fast when everyone’s dying around you,” I say, stalling for time on the other question, one I’ve refused to face since the tunnel collapsed. Mining is all I know. “I’m not sure what I’ll do after… After I’m back on my feet.” It’s the first expression that comes to mind.

“Desk work would, uh, benefit your disposition, if you can find it.” He nods and stands. “Well then, if that’s all, ring me or write in a month.” He hands me a card with his address in London.

“Thank you, Doctor, truly.”

“Well I couldn’t very well deny a request from Lord Barton. We go all the way back to our days at Eaton, and when he told me you were a war hero and that his little girl was so insistent, that he feared her heart would positively break if I didn’t have a look, I was on the train the next day.”

There’s a racket in the hall, like someone knocking something off a shelf. Dr. Carlisle and I both glance after it, but neither of us say anything. He gathers his black bag and stands. “I’ll leave instructions with Helena on how to wrap the leg. Good luck, Major.”

August 5th, 1917

Two months have passed, and I’ve been “walking” for a month now. Hobbling mostly. On good days, with the use of a cane, limping.

Carlisle came down a week ago to see my gimp performance. He stood beside Helena and cheered like a proud owner at a dog show.

That’s unfair. And unkind — to someone who’s been nothing but kind to me.

The pills. They dull the pain, and everything else, including my thoughts. They make me immune to emotion when I’m on them and ill as hell when they’re wearing off. Fighting a war in my mind is a strange kind of torture, I think I much preferred shooting the Kaiser’s men, at least I knew where I stood and could get a moment’s rest when I wasn’t on the front. The weeks of walking, popping a pill, and plodding on have left me with another fear: that I’ll never rid myself of this beast on my back, constantly goading me to nip the pain. I need the pills, can’t do without them, and don’t want to. I’ve traded the devil, the laudanum, for two crutches, one at my side and one in my pocket.

Carlisle says my walking will only improve as I “learn the leg” and find my minimum routine dose with the pain pills. It’s so easy to say.

But the pills aren’t the thing I’ve grown most attached to in the months since I left the hospital. She’s like no one I’ve ever met. The idea of moving out, of saying goodbye terrifies me. I know what I want to do: take her by the hand, board a ship, and sail away from Gibraltar, away from the war, away from the past, and start over new, some place safe, where our kids can grow up without a care in the world.

It’s almost three, and I haven’t taken a pill all day. I want my head clear when I talk to her. I don’t want to miss a thing, regardless of the pain, in my leg or in my heart.

I will need all my wits. Maybe it’s her British upbringing, with its stoicism and dry humor, or maybe it’s the two years of working in the field hospital, where emotions are just as contagious and dangerous as the infections they fight, but the woman is damn near impossible to get a read on. She laughs, she smiles, she is full of life, but she’s never out of control, never lets a word slip, never betrays her thoughts. I’d give my other leg to know how she really feels about me.

I’ve been thinking about my options and making what arrangements I can. The day after that demon Damien Webster came to call, I wrote three letters. The first letter went to the First National Bank in Charleston informing them to disburse the balance of my father’s account to the West Virginia Children’s Home in Elkins. I sent the second letter to the home notifying them to expect a contribution and that in the event the bequest does not reach them directly, they contact Mr. Damien Webster regarding the matter as he was the last person known to have access to the account. I truly hope they will receive the funds.

The final letter I wrote to the City Bank of Charleston, where my own funds are held. I received a reply letter a week-and-a-half later, informing me that my account totaled $5,752.34 and that there would be a certain fee for sending the sum via cashier’s check to Gibraltar. I had fully expected to be nicked on my way out the door, as banks often do, and I replied immediately thanking them and requesting they send said cashier’s check with all possible haste. A courier came round yesterday with it.

I also received the balance of my paltry Army salary, most of which the Army holds for you while you’re off fighting. I was honorably discharged last week, so it’s the last money that will arrive.

All told, I have $6,382.79 — a far cry from what I’ll need to support a wife and set myself up. I’ll have to find sedentary work, most likely something in banking or investing, possibly in something I know — mining, maybe munitions. But those kinds of jobs are only to be had by a certain type of man, with the right type of connections and the right type of education. If I had my own capital, I could make a go of it, and with a little luck, a strike — coal, gold, diamonds, copper, or silver — money wouldn’t be a problem. $25,000 is the goal I’ve set. It won’t give me much room for error.

I hear Helena open the door, and I walk out into the small anteroom to greet her. Her nurse’s uniform is covered in blood, and it strikes a strange contrast with the kind smile that spreads across her face when she sees me. I’d give anything to know if it was a smile of pity or one born of happiness. “You’re up. Don’t mind the clothes; I’m just going to change,” she says as she rushes out of the room.

“Put on something nice,” I call to her. “I’m taking you for a walk, then dinner.”

She pops her head out from the door frame to her bedroom. “Really?” The smile has grown, and a hint of surprise has crept into it. “Shall I lay out your uniform?”

“No. Thank you, but I’m done wearing a uniform. Tonight is about the future.”

CHAPTER 76

Situation Room
Clocktower HQ
New Delhi, India

Dorian paced the room, waiting to see the telemetry from the drones. The bank of screens sparkled to life one by one, revealing a monastery nestled in a mountainside.

The technician turned to him. “Should we do a few passes to find an optimal target—”

“No, don’t bother. Hit it just to the right of the base, doesn’t have to be exact. We mostly just want to set it on fire. Have the other drone follow behind and film the aftermath,” Dorian said.

A minute later, he watched the rockets fly from the drone into the mountainside. He waited, hoping to see Kate Warner run out of the burning building.

CHAPTER 77

Kate set down the journal and strained to see what was happening in the distance. It sounded like explosions. A rock slide? Earthquake? Past the farthest mountain range, smoke rose into the sky, white at first, then black.

Could the Immari be looking for them?

What could she do about it if they were? She gave David his afternoon dose of antibiotics and continued reading the journal to him.

August 5th, 1917

Helena and I walk along the cobblestone wharf, enjoying the warm breeze from the sea and listening to the ships blow their horns as they enter the bay and dock at the harbor just beyond the row of shops and diners. The wooden harbor seems as small as a stack of toothpicks below the towering jagged Rock of Gibraltar. I put my hands in my pockets, and she slips her arm around mine, drifts closer to me, and synchronizes her stride with mine. I count it as a good sign. Gradually, the lights come on along the street as the shopkeepers rouse from their Spanish-style siestas and return to prepare for the rush of dinner and evening shoppers.

Each step twists the knife in my leg, or at least, that’s the sensation walking provides. I feel the sweat gathering on my brow from the dull agony, but I don’t dare move an arm up to wipe it for fear she’ll let go.

Helena stops. She’s seen it. “Patrick, are you in pain?”

“No, of course not.” I wipe my forehead with my sleeve. “Just not used to the heat. Being indoors under the fans has left me ill-adjusted. And I grew up in West Virginia to boot.”

She nods toward the rock. “It’s cooler in the caves. And they have monkeys there. Have you seen them?”

I ask her if she’s joking and she promises she isn’t. I say we have time before dinner and let her lead me over there, mostly because she takes my arm again, and I’d walk anywhere at that point.

The British Sergeant gives us a personal tour of the pens they keep the monkeys in, deep inside St. Michael’s Cave. Our voices echo as we talk. They call them Barbary Macaques, and they are similar to macaques, except without the tail. Apparently the Barbary Macaques in Gibraltar are the only free-living primates in all of Europe. Well, besides humans, if the theory of evolution is to be believed.