Sunburn

Damn you, Matt, he thought. Where are you? “Won’t be gone long, Pete, half an hour at most,” his friend had assuredly promised. It had been more than two hours, since mid-afternoon. He felt like burnt toast.

Pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head, he pressed sensitive fingertips against his eyelids. Seemed a contradiction to his blindness, but light was painful.

A mostly empty can of beer had been about all he’d had in hand when he’d stepped ashore. Dry now, it sat on the gravel beside him, next to his folded cane. His shirt and towel were still on the boat. “Dennison can’t find the camper keys,” Matt had said, taking his arm and leading him away from the water. “We’re going to take a run back, check that beach.” He recognized the bum’s rush, and it saddened him.

Someone dropped onto the riverbank beside him, a woman, smelling of sweat and sunshine, and a faint hint of L’effluer. Her presence was suddenly in the earth under him and in the light around him. He licked sun burnt lips and turned his face toward her. “You’re getting over done,” she told him and draped a towel across his shoulders.

He realized she was the woman who had twice tramped this patch of beach. He had been aware of her by the space she filled and the sounds she left behind. She had a distinctive gait, long and strong without a masculine feel. A woman with very long legs and physically fit, always his preference. He’d been doubly aware of her when she’d hesitated near him–a hesitation he’d felt was full of questions, questions with old answers. Questions that made him feel isolated, and he was tired of the isola­tion.

She’d left the questions unasked, leaving him listening to her footsteps slapping against the riverbank. He’d heard sounds of grating gravel and slurring water and been un-shamefully pleased with himself that he’d known she’d been carrying a load. A kayak he’d decided by the way the current whispered against its sides when she pushed off and the dipping of her board when she paddled away. He had still been waiting when she returned, hearing it all in reverse.

“I don’t think your friends are going to be back anytime soon. They’ve run aground,” she told him in a voice thick with a riverman’s disdain for amateurs.

“Their Navy training,” he mused, deadpan.

She laughed–a nice sound to his ears and good for his soul. He could like this woman. Her shrouding towel he gratefully accepted after hours in the sun and months indoor, its coolness a physical relief.

“Towel’s damp,” she said without apology. “If you get cold, I could scare up a dry one.”

“Feels good,” he admitted, “but I could really use a drink, preferably hard.”

“Here,” she said, touching his hand with a bottle. “Brought water. That do?”

The bottle was cold and moist. He rubbed his face with it before twisting off the cap and taking a long drink. “You may have saved my life. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, and I think you could be more right than you realize. In this heat you should be perspiring and you’re not.”

“Not good?” he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and finger before replacing his sunglasses.

“Not good,” she confirmed. “You have a headache don’t you? Are you nauseated?”

“Headaches I’ve learned to live with. Felt a bit nauseated, but better now,” he said, smiling and tapping the bottle before finishing off what was left.

“I’d like to get you out of the sun. You’ve blisters on your shoulders. I’m going to see if your friend’s camper is open. The one with the sticker ‘Join the Navy, See the World’, right?”

He put on a lopsided grin at her quip, but before he could tell her yes and it was locked she was up and off. He heard her long strides headed in the direction he’d heard her headed before. He pulled the towel over his head. The usual throb was a hammering.  He ached and his stomach roiled. He told himself he drank too much water too fast. He took a deep breath, hoping to settle things, and folded his arms onto his knees, resting his forehead against them.

“Uncertainty is normal,” so they told him, often. He didn’t feel uncertain, just without anchors–drifting along, functioning but apathetic. He hadn’t wanted to come boating. He would have preferred, no…needed a distraction of his own making. Matt had insisted, “What in hell else is so pressing you can’t spend a weekend with friends?” It was a change. He was tired of being rudderless, tired of feeling adrift.

An outraged nation called him hero. The Navy oscillated hero or traitor? And Matt? Matt wallowed in gratitude and self-pity, turning a friendship brittle, soon to fracture like cracked glass. Why else was he sitting on the bank of the Colorado River alone?

The water bottle made an empty thump on the ground when it slipped from his fingers. He hardly noticed. A fresh coolness was laid over the old. For one instant he felt better. “It’s locked,” she announced and touched his hand. “How you doing?” He shook his head without lifting it. “We better get you under cover. My van’s not far.”

Tried to tell her he hadn’t the energy to move, no energy to tell her that he hadn’t the energy. She took his arm. He tried to wave her off. No good. No strength either.

“Give me your hands. You’re not staying here,” she said, voice gone flat, boding no argument. He lifted his head by sheer will. She put his arms around her neck, wrapped her own around his back. “Up,” she ordered, and pulled him upwards. He struggled to get standing, his feet tangling with the water bottle and beer can. He swayed and suddenly the world went as black in his mind as it had all those months ago, his senses collapsing in on themselves. He came down hard onto his hip. She pulled his arm across her shoulders. “Damn, you’re heavier than you look,” she hissed and gave him a shake. “One foot in front of the other, just in case you’ve forgotten. Name’s Carmen, by the way.”

 

She had been right, this was better, the air conditioner pumping coldness into his face. Gave him the sensation the van was moving. He vaguely thought she was driving too fast. Tried to tell her to slow down, couldn’t think why–lost in speed and time and space. What did she say her name was? Somewhere out in the dark he discovered he was wrapped in cloth. Oh God, he thought, oh God, not again!

 

“Andres!”

“In my office, Carmen.”

“Come here, Andy,” she called down the hall while shouldering her way through the nearest exam room door. It was spotless, everything orderly, and dim and barely cool, lights and air conditioning lowered for the weekend. “How you doing?”

“Lost,” he said, reaching with his hand, cautiously searching the space in front of him.

“Well, I found you,” she assured him, pulling his weight more evenly against her. She struck an elbow against the light switch, brightening the room. “You’ll be OK. Andy is a doctor. This is his office.”

“Weekend, right? He’s not golfing?”

“Don’t get cute, you’re too heavy.”

“Sorry.”

“Can you get up on the table?”

“Just prop me anywhere.”

“You’re getting cute again,” she said, maneuvering him against the exam table.

“What have we got here?” Andres asked from the doorway.

“Heat stroke,” Carmen answered over her shoulder while he levered himself onto the table.

“And a hell of a sunburn,” the doctor noted, opening a cupboard. “What’s your name?”

“Peter O’Neill,” he said. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if giving them his name had released him in some way.

“I’m Dr. Robledo. I’m going to give you something to ease that burn.”

“Actually, I’m not in much pain.”

Studying the scars on Peter’s torso, Robledo said, “I think you’ve had some experience with pain.”

“Some,” he agreed dryly.

“Ibuprofen or aspirin might help,” Robledo offered and flopped a folded sheet onto the exam table next to him.

Peter shook his head, “Thanks anyway.”

“All right,” the doctor agreed. “I’m going to take your temperature and blood pressure. Then we’ll sooth that sunburn with an oral steroid and cool compresses. Did you pass out?”

“No.”

“Yes,” Carmen contradicted, “he did, also a headache and nausea.”

“Not unusual,” Peter explained.

“Just the same, I’m recommending fluids, intravenously to get started,” Robledo told him.

“This mean I’m staying?”

“For awhile, till your temperature comes down, and we get some fluids into you. Then plenty of liquids, drink something every few hours. Open up,” Robledo ordered and stuck an old-fashioned mercury thermometer under Peter’s tongue. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

Andres took Carmen by her arm and steered her out the door. “How did he get into this state?”

She shrugged. “Friends grounded their boat down river. Nits are too drunk to think to push it off. He’s been waiting at the ramp all afternoon.”

“What happens when they get back?”

She grinned. “Left your number on their windshield, bright red, can’t miss it.”

“Red?”

“Lipstick. It was the first thing I could find for writing.”

“It’ll melt and run.”

“Already has,” she grinned

Andy snorted and beckoned with a nod of his head.

She shrugged and said, “What’s up?” as she followed him into his reception area.

“This,” he answered, picking up an old Newsweek from one of the stacks around the room and thrusting it into her hands. The banner read “Terrorism Targets NATO,” punctuated by a photograph of a hijacked plane sitting on a runway. A body lay sprawled like a broken doll on the tarmac beneath it. She glanced at Andy, puzzled. He tapped the picture of the body. “That man laying there dying is Lt. Commander Peter O’Neill. Shot in the head then pushed out. The fall broke both hips and half the bones on the left side, puncturing a lung.”

“Jesus,” she breathed.

“They singled out all the Americans, gave them a choice. Be democratic they said, elect one.”

“For what? This?”

“Read it,” he said and left her to it.

 

Straddling the physician’s stool, Carmen coasted it next to the exam table. One end had been raised for comfort; a pillow had been placed under Peter’s head and knees. The IV dripped into the back of his hand. He looked bored with the whole process and very sunburned, but she decided, nowhere near as vulnerable as he had looked on the riverbank.

“I’d offer to get you something to read, but that’s sort of crude,” she said. “How about cards?”

He grinned. “Who’s getting cute now? Tell me, how did you know I needed help?”

“I was at the boat ramp last evening. You were rare then. You’re pretty well done this afternoon.”

“I’m grateful, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Andy said your temperature has returned to near normal, a very good sign.”

“How close to the end?”

She checked the IV. “Half full, half empty, which ever you prefer.”

He filled his lungs and cleared them with exasperated patience. “I hate doctors. Well, not doctors, hospitals.”

“You’ve been in a few.”

“A few,” he admitted. “Some first rate ones.”

“And made headlines getting there. Andy showed me the Newsweek.”

He scowled.

“What?” she asked. “You don’t know about the article or that’s not you lying under that 747?”

“It’s me.”

“Then why the scowl?”

“Frustration,” Peter said. “The loss of a friendship.”

“I suppose that makes a weird sort of sense if you know the players. Are we talking about today or ten months ago?”

“Both I expect. Why am I telling you this?”

“To get my curiosity out of the way,” she answered.

After some thought he nodded and said, “OK. Matt Wallison and I were on that plane together.”

“Matt Stuck-on-the-mud?” she queried.

“Yeah,” he said, frowning. “We were headed state side. I hadn’t been home in three years and jumped at the opportunity when a NATO contractor offered a ride. He’s a Greek national flying cargo, so we didn’t go through the usual screenings. Should have,” he added disgustedly. “We never got off the ground.”

“What were they after? It was a cargo plane after all.”

“Belonging to a Greek who hauls freight for NATO. The lower decks were configured for cargo. He kept the upper deck for passengers.”

“Terrorism, a synonym for intimidation.” Carmen scowled. “Make sure people know if they do business with certain affiliates it earns more than disdain.”

“So right, but they missed their prime target. The owner wasn’t on the plane. We were to pick him up in Athens. But taking the plane was their main objective. It didn’t necessarily matter who was on it. They knew the owner often flew NATO contractors, especially Americans. There were about three dozen passengers who boarded in Turkey, of whom nearly half were Americans. We were their leverage. At the end it was the Americans who were pushed into a tight group on the main deck to be their final line of defense.”

“Thoughtful of them,” she muttered.

“Mmm, very thoughtful fellows,” he said and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Headache?”

“No, not really. Light bothers me at times.”

Carmen pushed off with her toe and scooted up to the light switch, punched it out, wheeled her way back, stopped the stool on her heel. “Better?”

“Better,” he agreed.

“Obviously shooting you in the head didn’t have the desired effect.”

“Skull’s too thick,” Peter grinned. “But to be honest, the guy was showboating.”

“Showboating? OK, go on. You may have had to tell this a hundred times, but I’m riveted.”

Peter let out a breath, considering how to and how much to say, decided to dive in, let it come out as it came out. He said, “Bastard went along the line of us putting the gun barrel against our foreheads and saying, ‘Yea or nay.’ At some point in this game, he aimed at Matt for the third or fourth time, began contracting the trigger, then suddenly swung the weapon and fired at me. It wasn’t a straight on shot.”

“I’m so sorry,” Carmen said.

“Me too,” he replied somberly. “Matt and I were the only military on the plane. In all there were seventeen Americans. They made a list of the hostages by nationality, including crew, taken from passports. Our military ID marked us, Matt and me. Ironic,” he added, “since I’d just addressed the committee investigating risks for traveling military personnel. That first day they interrogated us along with a couple French contractors and several Greek businessmen. The one who did most of the interrogating was intelligent, dogmatic and fueled by a lot of hate.”

“I can’t imagine a more damning combination,” she sympathized, touching his arm.

Peter scowled at the memory, shook his head to rid himself of it. “The guy wasn’t easy to oppose,” he admitted. “He knew what to ask and how to ask it. The days that followed, he’d single Matt or me out, taking us below to the cargo deck, where it was hottest, the space narrowest. Sometimes we were questioned, sometimes beaten, but mostly threatened.” He said it with no inflection in his voice, fact on fact, as if saying it cold and hard could take the personal flavor out of the words.

“By morning the second day, everyone on both sides was exhausted, nerves raw. I began to realize Matt was being taken below most often. The one with the heaviest aura of hate was particularly hard on him from the beginning. That night he turned ugly. He’d simply been nasty up to that time.”

“What in the world were they after?”

“Headlines,” Peter said grimly. “The hijacking was first and foremost a political statement. What they demanded from the Turks was the release of a list of prisoners they knew they wouldn’t get, but they needed a demand as a negotiating tool.

“Once they realized Matt and I were assigned NATO Op, their priorities changed. Their questions were meant to fit us into the organizational structure, find out if there was intelligence to be gotten.” Peter hesitated a long, long few seconds.

“And,” Carmen prompted.

“There was and there wasn’t,” Peter admitted.

“You had access to more intelligence than Matt,” she reasoned.

“Mmm,” Peter murmured. “I’d been assigned NATO Operations longest, but Matt had rank seniority.”

“How long did it go on?”

“Three days. By the second night the hijackers were arguing among themselves. The negotiations were either going too slowly or beginning to break down. Food and water had been sent in, but to get it they’d obviously given up more than they’d intended, the three children for sandwiches. The two women to get the water replenished.

“That last evening they interrogated Matt and me together. At one point Matt was clubbed to the floor. We both suffered cracked ribs and bruised kidneys, had broken fingers and collarbones. Clearly Matt couldn’t take more. He curled himself between pallets of freight, but was dragged out, a gun put to his head. The expression on his face was absolute panic. He was on the verge of hysteria, positive he was going to be killed right then.”

Peter stopped there, his hands balled into fists. Carmen waited. After a long half minute he uncurled his fingers and went on.

“It was senseless,” he said with throttled down anger. “They’d known from the start they’d not get a prisoner exchange, but to make their point they were willing to die. That scenario changed when they realized they’d been given a bonus. They wanted to capitalize on it. I traded on that premise, knowing I’d blow my career in the process.”

He stopped again. She touched his shoulder. “I can hear in your voice what you won’t say,” she quietly, gently assured him. “You were the stronger so you drew their attention away from your friend.”

Peter dragged in a soggy breath. After a moment he went on in a flat voice. “The next morning they put an ultimatum to all the Americans–choose which one would be the first to die. We had thirty minutes.”

“Be democratic, elect someone,” she quoted the article.

“We wouldn’t, of course, how could we?” he asked, inflection back in his voice. “Newsweek, Time, all of them got it wrong. There was no vote. After thirty minutes, a gun was pointed at each of us several times to build fear. Yea or nay they demanded, a show strictly to intimidate. I’d won in the preliminaries.”

“Bang!” she whispered angrily.

“Mmm,” he smiled. “So what’s your relationship with Robledo?”

“Wow, that’s some change of subject. Step brother,” she answered, grinning. “I knew he would be here, always is.”

“You married?”

“Was. Carlos Munoz. Navy like you.”

“Hopefully not like me.”

Carmen studied his face. “No, not like you. You understood what you were risking. Probably calibrate every risk you’ve ever taken. So what now?”

“Calibrate the odds of you accepting a dinner invitation.”

“They’re pretty good if you’re not driving.”