It was one of Cote’s primary duties — as the resident submarine corpsman, he needed to sign off whenever a sub sailor missed a deployment for medical reasons. The original reason, he supposed, was to ensure that no one was malingering to get out of sea duty, a determination that the submarine force, with its stubborn pride, wanted made by one of its own. In reality, that was not a large concern; sailors were far more likely, in his experience, to hide a serious ailment to avoid letting down their shipmates than they were to fake an illness. And the ship’s command was certainly not inclined to send sailors home for mild ailments and start day one of a patrol short-handed. When a ship voluntarily sent him one of their own, Cote knew, it was usually dire.
“I’ll be right there.”
He took the elevator down to the third floor. He was at Tripler Army Medical Center, the Army hospital in Honolulu known affectionately to generations of military men as “Crippler.” It was the largest military hospital in the entire Pacific sphere, treating all the horrible things that can happen to a soldier or sailor, or an aging veteran for that matter, responsible for an area that covered roughly 50 % of the earth’s surface. The elevator doors slid open and Cote saw the young petty officer waiting for him with a concerned look on his face.
“Master Chief, thanks for coming quickly.”
“Sick submariner?”
“Very sick,” he said as they walked down the hall, their black oxfords clicking on the tile. “And getting worse by the minute. Ship sent him here late last night, he had a fever and cramps. I’m waiting for his test results.”
“Any ideas?”
He shrugged. “Flu? I don’t know. He seemed stable last night… I guess that’s why they didn’t order any tests.” There was a note of scorn in his voice.
“What did his corpsman think? Did you talk to him yet?”
“Didn’t get a chance,” said Wills. “His boat pulled out this morning.”
Cote furrowed his brow at that, bothered. It smacked of abandonment.
They walked silently to a far corner of the ward surrounded by a curtain. The young petty officer threw it open, revealing to Cote a breathtaking view of Honolulu in the background, while a young man was dying in the fore. His face was gray, contrasted sharply by the blood that was dribbling from his mouth.
“Here’s his chart…” said Wills, but before he could reach it, the sick sailor coughed so hard he almost convulsed. His back arched severely and he groaned in pain.
“Code!” said the master chief as he ran to his bedside. Wills jumped for the wall and pushed a button, setting in motion an emergency process that the master chief knew would be too late.
He stepped up to the young sailor and put his hand on his forehead — it was hot to the touch. White spittle had dried around his lips. His eyes searched without seeing anything. His hospital gown was soaked through with sweat. Cote noticed a stuffed green seabag leaning in the corner.
“Son… it’s okay,” he said.
“No…”
Lacking any better ideas he took the young man’s hand. In contrast to his forehead, it was clammy, cold, lifeless. The skin was rough, and his fingernails were dirty and cracked, the hand of a mechanic. He saw what he thought was a badly bruised fingernail, then realized to his surprise that it had been painted black with nail polish.
“Where are you from, sailor?” He urgently wanted to keep the conversation going, feeling that any loss of consciousness would be the end.
“Boise,” he gasped.
“Is that your hometown? Or your boat?”
The young man’s eyes focused on him for a moment, and after a thirty-year career that began as a medic in a war zone, Cote recognized a man who was ready to die.
“Boat,” he sighed.
It was the last word he ever spoke.
Danny Jabo and his young cousin were walking slowly through the cornfield, crunchy with snow, their shotguns held loosely at their sides. Little Mike wouldn’t shut up. He was from the talkative cohort of the Jabo clan, and Danny thought the boy’s chatter would be a suitable replacement for the noise normally generated by a team of good dogs.
“Over there?” he asked, pointing.
Danny nodded, as they walked toward a fence line that the farmer, yet another distant relative, had indicated was thick with cottontails.
“How close do we need to get?” he asked.
Danny put his finger to his lips, shushing him.
“Closer?”
