The Company of the Dead (20 page)

Enough
. I need to be out of here by the end of the week. I’m going to head north. I have a dead man’s promise to keep and it starts with this. Getting it all down on paper. I need to get it right too, so I can make sense of how I came to be in this place and time. A combination of my experiences, along with the things Gershon told me. Some of it’s speculation. And I suppose a bunch of it’s a crock, but it’s as close to the truth as I will ever get.

It was late February and I’d been in Vegas two days before I got the call.

The conference didn’t start till the next morning so I’d gone to the Flamingo. I was playing blackjack, chipping up, and the cash was flowing my way for a change. Then my cell phone began to ring. I had to leave the table to take the call, which bugged the hell out of me. No matter what the interruption is, whether they change the dealer, refill the float, or some clown spills his drink, by the time you place that next bet your luck has gone stone cold. You might as well throw your chips in a wishing well. Having said that, I can’t think of a time I ever chipped down. Always hoping to break that streak.

I took the call.

The speaker’s voice sounded very crisp for a cell phone; he could have been standing next to me. He introduced himself as Captain Burns and told me that I was required for an urgent consultation.

I told him I wasn’t on call. I told him I was nowhere near Boston. But I kept it nice. I didn’t know who the guy was, and if my ex-wife’s lawyer taught me one thing it’s that it pays to know who you’re offending.

“We know exactly where you are, Doctor,” he replied. “You’re standing approximately five feet away from pit seven, table three. Your last hand was a pair of aces. You won on the split; not bad but not wise against a picture. Incidentally,” he informed me, “your drink has just arrived.”

I remember feeling the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I remember asking, “What’s wrong with splitting aces?” I turned to see that a cocktail waitress had brought my bourbon to the table. The dealer was pointing me out to her.

Burns said, “Take one card instead, you might get a seven, eight or nine. That’s a safe hand.”

“I might get a ten and then I’m screwed.” I scanned the room. I couldn’t see anyone making a call. “Split them and I might get a picture and cover my loss. Besides, he busted.”

“Dangerous play, relying on the other guy to fold.”

“That’s why it’s called gambling...” I glanced up. There were cameras everywhere. It had to be a practical joke. But why? My anxiety was rapidly turning to exasperation. “Who is this?”

“I told you who I am. We need you to help us with an injury. Our MD thinks he’s had an internal carotid artery dissection.”

“Who gave you my number? Where are you?”

“I’m in a car just outside the hotel lobby.”

“
What
the hell are you?”

I heard a muffled voice. Someone talking to Burns.

“Sir, I’m Air Force, out of Nellis.” He paused. “The car is a black Oldsmobile just behind the taxis.” He hung up.

I went back to the table and took my chips. Didn’t touch the bourbon. I was in a daze as I walked to the cashier and cashed my chips.

I was starting to hope it was a joke.

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon. I knew that because I was wearing a watch. No decent casino allows natural light in the place and no clocks. Ever. Time can only be measured in an exchange of plastic across green felt, the accumulation of butts in an ashtray. And if they’re real good, you won’t even notice that.

Walking out of the hotel lobby, I looked around, hoping for a friendly face, but there, parked a little distance away from the taxi line, was the Olds. As I approached, the black-tinted driver’s window slowly slid down. A pale hand in a black sleeve emerged from the darkness.

A voice called out to me. Burns’s. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

The hand disappeared, then returned, and a wallet emerged and flipped open to reveal a badge. I didn’t recognize the insignia. It was nice and shiny.

I said, “The pleasure is all yours,” or something equally stupid.

The rear door swung open.

“Time is of the essence, Doctor. Please get inside.”

At this point the edge of the map began to blur. I was entering uncharted waters.
Hic sunt dracones
.

I asked, “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

His face was gaunt and pale. “Who else would we be?”

There was a hollow chuckle from inside the car.

Blindly, I got in.

I’m certain that if I hadn’t done so, I would have been kidnapped. I’d like to think I never had a choice.

The back seat was empty. The car smelled new. Burns was sitting next to the driver, and they both had the same close-cropped haircut. I was being abducted by the Bobbsey twins. The Olds pulled away.

I told him that I had to attend a conference the next morning, that I was giving a talk. He told me that there had been a change in arrangements. Someone else was flying out from Boston to speak on my behalf. Apologies had been made to the seminar’s organizers.

Perhaps I was relieved. After all, the paper was a form of professional suicide. So I settled back into the seat and watched the backs of the casinos go by, with an occasional glimpse of the monorail overhead. It looked like we were heading for the airport.

“Are we going to Nellis?” I asked.

“Somewhere close by,” Burns replied.

I remember thinking that they’d better hurry up if this really was an arterial dissection.

“So what’s going on?” I asked, after we had left the outskirts of the city.

“Doctor, I’ve told you, one of our staff has sustained a head injury that requires your expertise.”

“What was he doing?” I asked, surveying the flat desert around us. “Water skiing?”

At the airport we were rushed through a side door, down a long hallway and into a small office. Above the desk, written in red crayon on the wall, was the phrase “Janet Airlines. Have a nice day.” I showed them my driver’s license, signed a non-disclosure form, and had my photograph taken. I was led through another doorway, which opened onto the tarmac. I asked about my gear and Burns told me it was being brought from the hotel.

We climbed into a small plane on the edge of the tarmac. It looked like a Gulfstream. It probably took less than ten minutes from our arrival at the airport to lift-off. I was seated between Burns and his companion in an uncomfortable chair in a blackened-out cabin. All that was missing was a briefcase cuffed to my wrist. Nothing felt right.

“So where are we really going?” I asked as we taxied.

Burns glanced over me to his companion. “Pete?” he said.

The other guy just shrugged.

“We’re taking you out to the Lake,” Burns said.

“The lake?”

They looked at each other, then back at me.

“Place has got many names,” Pete said. He looked like he was enjoying the expression on my face. “Just sit back and enjoy the ride, Doctor Wells.”

At six p.m., February 26, 1999, I arrived at Groom Lake. A final blast from the jet’s engines sent a wave of pebbles skimming across the tarmac. The sun was just settling upon a low ridge on the horizon as we walked the short distance to a chain of bunkers. A lone black Chinook squatted nearby.

Beyond, past the bunkers and the slowly lumbering gas tankers that rumbled from hangar to hangar in swirls of orange dust, was Groom Lake itself. It stretched out toward a shallow range of mountains that encompassed the entire complex. Further south were a series of lakebeds that had run dry long ages before the arrival of man.

Maybe I’m getting better. Sure beats slashing my wrists. I remember the scent of the air out there. It tasted good. Maybe I’m getting better. I’m smiling. Hell, maybe I’ve just lost it. I remember reading somewhere that if you are wondering if you are insane, you still have a shred of sanity. Alternatively, those whom the gods would destroy, they first drive mad.

* * *

It had rained recently. A thin smear of water shimmered across the surface of the lake. In the distance, huddled together, were more buildings in groups of four or five, connected by gravel roads that ran up into the hills. It was getting chilly and I was only wearing a thin jacket. I was directed toward the closest building, where I was greeted by three men at the door: a tall gray-haired man, Gregory Jenkins, who was base director; an air force officer whose name I forget; and Dean Gershon, their MD. He had a medium build, thick, close-cropped curly black hair, and an easy smile. He shook my hand for about five minutes.

“I expect you want to see our patient,” Jenkins said in a gravelly voice.

“I want to see his scans.”

He nodded, and led the way down a low-ceilinged corridor. The staff we encountered avoided my gaze. There were no patients anywhere. It was a bureaucrat’s dream.

Some men fell into step behind us. Jenkins made a brief apology about calling me away from the conference and Gershon began filling me in on the case. One of the pilots had lost consciousness in a flight simulator. Gershon had seen him and found the man unresponsive. On examination the patient had a Glasgow Coma Scale of 6. He’d ordered a CT and an MRA. The findings were consistent with left-sided cerebral ischaemia. It looked like the internal carotid artery had torn so that the blood had seeped within the artery’s walls, blocking the flow.

He handed me a file and I thumbed through photostats of the scans. The affected portions of the brain were dead or dying. I read on and saw my name listed with those of other vascular neurosurgeons.

Gershon told me that he’d tracked down one of my recent articles on Medline. He told me how thrilled he was to find that I was actually in Nevada.

I tried to restrain my own joy at being pulled from the conference.

I wonder. Can I blame him for what was to happen if he did it to save my life?

They had the patient in an isolation room. He was intubated, hooked up to a ventilator. Two armed guards stood by the door. A third flanked a nurse who was changing the fluid bag on his IV pole. He was taped up to an EEG. The display showed near complete flatline. Minimal brain activity.

“Why the guards?” I asked without thinking.

I was cautioned to keep my questions pertinent to the case.

I checked the IV flask. Thiopentone had been added to the solution. “You’ve got him on full burst suppression,” I said.

“He’s hibernating. Just the way you like them, pre-op,” Gershon replied.

There wasn’t much to find on examination. His pupils were fixed and dilated. He had retinal hemorrhages, as I would have expected from an acceleration-deceleration injury. Basically, he looked like shit.

Time travel will do that to you, I guess.

We operated on the patient that night. The case went well. Gershon was competent and fine company to boot. That’s crucial during a long case. I could almost forgive him for being the reason I was there. He compared favorably to the dull, black-suited officials who watched my every move.

Apart from Gershon and myself there was an anesthetist, a scrub-sister and a scout nurse. At the door stood two security agents, clearly uncomfortable in their scrubs. We operated well into the night, Tom Waits’ voice emerging from the small CD player on one of the Mayo tables, telling it like it is.

We finished closing up at about 1 a.m. Gershon came over to shake my hand like we’d just played a tennis match. I looked up at the observation gallery. If any of the guards had changed shifts, I wouldn’t have been able to tell. Jenkins was still sitting there, his chin resting on his palm. Relaxed, surprisingly indifferent. He met me at the scrub basin. He asked me how I thought it went.

I told him that the procedure had gone well enough. Whether or not it was successful would be a matter of time. The patient would need to be transferred to a neurological intensive care unit. Long-term rehab options would have to be considered.

Jenkins shook his head slowly. He told me they had a high dependency unit, well-trained nursing staff. The patient wasn’t going anywhere.

“He could bleed again,” I said.

“I know that, Doctor. I read your article. He needs expert supervision.”

He was courteous about it. He let it look like it was my decision. I might have been exhausted but I had a fair idea of what was going on. I asked him how long he wanted me to stay.

Jenkins smiled. “Until his condition stabilizes, one way or another.”

“But I get to leave eventually?” I asked. I don’t think there was any tremor in my voice.

“Of course,” he replied. The smile broadened, bordered on warmth. “These things happen all the time. You’ll be compensated for your services, Doctor, but you’ll be obliged to remain silent about your time here. I’m sure you’re familiar with confidentiality in your line of work.”

“I’m sure.”

“And when you return to Boston, your difficulties with the hospital will be sorted out. It’s also most unlikely that you’ll be hearing again from your ex-wife’s attorneys either.”

That took me by surprise. “I see.”

“And you’ll be compensated for your services, Doctor. The funds will be placed in your Swiss bank account.”

“I don’t have a Swiss bank account,” I said, carefully.

His thin lips parted to reveal those even white teeth. “You do now, Doctor.”

He knew too much about me, but then again I suspect he knew too much about a lot of people. It was at that time that I made a conscious decision. Up until then my curiosity had been aroused. There was so much I wanted to ask Gershon, but he was here for keeps. For all I knew, he may have been recruited in a similar manner to me. I’d asked him how he’d ended up here, earlier in the operation, and he’d replied, “The same as everybody else. Bad directions.”

I was in uncharted territory alright. There were no maps for this region, and there was only one way out. So I resolved not to ask any questions. I resolved to perform my job to the best of my abilities. It was a windfall, really. The cash, and the chance of seeing my life fall back into order.

I had to wonder what Jenkins might have offered had my marriage been happy and my finances secure, but I wasn’t foolish enough to believe that I’d like the answer.