Chapter 50
"A hologram?... You mean like those things on credit cards and the National Geographic
?... Can't be!" Ginge declared, incredulously. "This ain't Star Trek. We're not on the holodeck of the friggin' Enterprise.""It's a hologram," Nick repeated, then added in a whisper to himself, "but it doesn't take a retina scan to penetrate.... Thank God!" He gazed across the rock face, wondering how far the illusion extended. Where did the hologram end and the real cliff begin?... How far behind was the door?... If he stepped through, would he slam his already broken nose into the metal?
Stepping up to the hologram, he began to probe its depths with his crutch. The rock slabs, which created the cleft where Derek still lay, were the left edge. The right edge seemed to be far beyond the rim of the trail, perhaps beyond the pipeline. In some places the stone lay only inches behind the illusion, but in the middle of the trail, Nick found its deepest point, where the wooden tip made no contact with the object behind.
"OK... here goes," he said, then stepped boldly through what appeared to be solid rock. He found himself facing a cave's mouth, barricaded by a large, metal door, which contained a smaller door at its center. He looked around. Here, in this pocket, the light was strange... moving... almost as if he was under water. He stepped forward and ran a finger across the metal. Though covered with a light coat of rust, the door was sound. He rapped.... It was thick... heavy... reinforced steel.
Nick reached for the left edge and felt slots and mechanisms, embedded in the rock. The larger door, which must have been designed for trucks and heavy equipment, apparently slid back into the cliff. He laid his hand flat against the steel and felt a deep, tingling vibration. "Well, I'll be damned," he said. Was it the water surging through the pipes? He didn't think so.... There was a mechanical rhythm to it. He stepped back to his right and found the small door, felt its latch. It was like the latch on an industrial freezer or the back of a semi. He pulled. It held fast.
"Indy!" Ginge called. "You OK?"
"Yeah!... Ginge!... Get some plastique... enough to blow a freezer door." Nick smiled a moment later, when he saw the SAS man's worried expression as he stepped through the rock.
"Enough to what?..." Looking around, Ginge grinned, then let out a long whistle. "Bugger me!" He examined the door and its lock. "Let's hope this does it.... I wouldn't want to have to try to blow a hole in this thing." He began to mold the explosive putty around the lock and handle. "Good thing Derek brought this shit. Why'd he lug it all the way, anyway?" he asked as he inserted the detonator.
"Dunno," Nick replied. "Psychic, I guess.... He always travels well equipped."
"Come on!" said the Brit. "Let's get outta here... thirty seconds."
The two men hurried back to join the others in the crevice. "Yusuf... keep a tight hold on the horses.... Explosion... in ten seconds," Ginge called out.
Nick peered around the boulder and waited for the muffled blast. He smiled when he saw the hologram momentarily blur and flicker, then return to its normal, solid appearance. As the thump rolled along the cliff face, the anxious horses began to back away, dragging Yusuf with them. The two soldiers grabbed for the leather bridles, then helped the youngster sooth the beasts.
"Better take a look," said a weary voice behind them. On his feet, Derek was leaning heavily against the stone. "Take your rifles."
Nick picked up his AK-47, while Yusuf tossed a weapon to Ginge. The two men then stepped back through the hologram.
"Spooky... the way it makes your skin crawl when you step through it," Ginge commented.
"It's the energy field," Nick explained.
"'Alf a mo', mate," said Ginge, laying a hand on the SEAL's arm. "How do you know about this shit? What are you blokes into?"
Nick tested the door, let out a silent sigh of relief when he felt it give, and left the questions unanswered. "OK! It's stiff... but movable.... We probably bent the hell out of the hinges.... Come on... push!"
Ginge let his questions go. The two men gripped and, using their weight, gradually walked the door open. Startled by a thunking sound that echoed up from the blackness, Nick slipped to the right, Ginge to the left. They cautiously peered around the edge as a dim light flickered, then grew steady. A broad, downward sloping, rough-cut tunnel lay before them. From somewhere there was the slow whirr of fans and the rhythm of air compressors being forced into action.
"Sensors...," said Ginge. "Emergency lighting."
"High-low won't work here," said Nick, appraising the situation. "We'd be sittin' ducks with this light at our backs. There's no cover� the tunnel's too long... and there ain't no way in hell I could be the low ball. I'd fall flat on my face."
"Can't leapfrog... doin' covering fire," Ginge reasoned. "We'd be shootin' each other. Bullets'll bounce round in there like a penny arcade... and if anybody's in there anywhere at all, we'd really be announcing ourselves."
"I'd say we already did that with the blast and the lights.... Besides, leapfrogging would be about as easy as high-low. Pole vaulting might be more practical," Nick said, holding up his crutch. "But smell the air.... This place has been shut up for years. Come on.... I think we need to watch for booby traps more than bad guys.... Let's get everything in.... Horses, too"
* * *
The two soldiers supported Derek through the door. They slowly walked down the sloping corridor to a large cavern. The precept looked around. The space was massive, but the air was stale. Faint light shone from tunnels that radiated, like spokes in a wheel, from the distant walls. High above, he could make out the large water pipes. The heat they gave off was welcome.... Up higher... beyond them... was complete blackness.
"Thank God, it's got power... and it's warm." Ginge's relief was palpable.
"You sit," Nick told Derek. "We'll help Yusuf with the animals and supplies." He looked back up the tunnel to where the youngster stood wide-eyed with wonder.
Yusuf waved and shouted, "OK!" In an excited voice, he explained to Ginge that it was like walking through a photograph. It was just another Western "thing" that was really without logical purpose... much like television. He then nonchalantly dismissed it as an irrelevance... a meaningless curiosity in his world. He looked about him once more, then left and a moment later returned, leading the first of the blindfolded horses though the door. "OK!" he shouted again.
"I think he's 'OK'," Derek said with a chuckle. "I'm fine.... You two go see what you can find," he suggested. "If Yusuf needs help... I'll be here."
"All right, Boss," Nick reluctantly conceded. He pushed himself to his feet and pulled Plan 189B from his pocket. The blueprint indicated what appeared to be habitable areas, where they could set up camp and properly tend to the precept's injuries... and to their own.
Ginge told Yusuf to look after Da'reek Raheen until they returned. Shrugging off his outer coat, he slipped it behind the older man's back. He drew his hand gun from his pack, checked the ammunition clip, and tucked a spare into his pocket. He laid his rifle beside Derek. "Just in case," he said. "Nothing's opened that door in years... but...."
"Right," Nick agreed. "There could be another way in."
Both men smiled to see Yusuf pat his weapon and give a quick nod. Without language the boy understood.
* * *
Derek's gaze followed the two soldiers. They'd be safe enough. There were no "human" enemies here... though there were enemies of humanity tucked away... in hibernation.
He watched Yusuf settle the animals. The youngster loosened their girths and removed the bits from their mouths, but wisely left their packs in place. They could soon be on the move again to a more congenial camp.
A few minutes later, Yusuf joined the precept. "Tea... Da'reek Raheen?" he offered, as he began to set up the small stove. While he worked, he glanced nervously around the cavern.
"OK... Yusuf... tea." Derek had decided that Afghans were very like the British.... Nothing was ever so bad that a cup of tea wouldn't help. He smiled at the boy and tried to ignore the growing pain in his back. He knew the shrapnel would have to come out and that the pharmacy was very low. He'd given the last of painkillers to Nick and Ginge, who also needed what was left of the antibiotics.
An hour later...
"OK... Derek.... Let's go." Nick slipped an arm around the precept and helped him to his feet. "We've found the bunk house... complete with what looks like officers' quarters and a sick bay.... We can take a look at your back, then get you to bed."
Leaning heavily on the younger man, Derek nodded. Nick felt his weariness. The precept's strength seemed to have deserted him completely.
The three men fussed around him, leading him down the dimly lit passage. "Here we are." Ginge opened the door to a small room that held an examination table, chairs, sink, cupboards, and medicine chest. The padded table was covered in plastic, which the SAS man quickly ripped off so that Nick and Yusuf could get Derek seated. "They left behind some stuff that looks like pretty elaborate medical equipment, but God knows what it's for," he commented.
"Let's get you undressed," Nick said to the precept. The SEAL untied the cloth that held Derek's arm in place, then quickly clipped away the bandages tied over his coat and slipped off the garment. He helped his friend gently shed his vest, then sliced open the back of his blood-soaked sweater and shirt, and peeled them away too. When he reached gauze pads, he saw that they had been thoroughly saturated and had stuck to the wounds, along with the waffled knit of Derek's thermal top. "I'll have to soak these off," he said, stepping to the sink. "Hot and cold running water... amazing."
"Looks like they planned on coming back," Derek murmured, gazing around.
In the meantime, Ginge searched the drawers and cabinets. He found forceps and other surgical tools. "Yusuf... there's a kitchen next door with a big stove, which works. I tried it.... Put these in a pan... and boil them.... OK?... Boil them. You saw how we did it at the pumping station.... This is the same."
The youth nodded, and hurried out, clutching the stainless steel instruments. Ginge opened their own first aid pack, which he'd grabbed from Derek's horse. "Shit... Indy!... We've not got much left... nothing for pain.... We've got aspirin... what's left of the antibiotic we've been taking... what's left of the ointment.... The over-the-counter shit we found."
The SEAL joined him and examined the contents. "He's working on a fever," Nick whispered. "Shrapnel's always a dirty wound. Let's start him on the erythromycin we've got left. Wish we had more of that antibiotic and painkiller he shot us with.... Dammit!... Why didn't he bring more?"
"'Cause he knew he might have to lug the pack himself," Ginge whispered back, "and he knew he might not be up to it.... Which do you leave out?... Spare ammo, C4, food, or the chemist's shop?... He did pretty damned good, if you ask me."
Nick glanced at the medicine cabinet on the wall. "Anything useful in there?"
"Doubtful," the corporal responded. "Its been too long, Indy.... If they left anything, it'll have gone off... maybe even gone bad.... Things like tetracycline can turn to poison.... I'll see what I can find to clean the wounds."
Ginge ran some hot water into a bowl, then paused to slowly read the Russian labels on the various bottles in the cupboard. "I'm pretty sure this is an antiseptic," he said. "It looks and smells like TCP."
"What's TCP?" Nick asked. "What about alcohol or betadine?"
"It's wicked stuff... burns like hell, but does the job," the Brit replied as he poured some of the pungent liquid into the water and swished it around.
Nick opened the lower doors of the cabinet, found some bandages, gauze pads, cotton wool, tape that had long since passed its usable age... and not much else. He glanced over at the precept, who sat dejectedly on the edge of the table, his head bowed low. "Maybe I should do it," he whispered to the Brit. "He's been through a lot of rough stuff lately."
"We're both gonna be busy, Indy," Ginge replied. "Give him the pill.... Then check his pupils.... He's got a head wound... which means there's most likely a concussion.... Talk to him.... Keep him occupied.... This is going to hurt like hell without some sort of anesthetic. I hope he passes out."
"You don't need to talk about me as if I'm not here," Derek muttered. "You're not a doctor... and I am not unconscious... yet."
The SEAL hesitated for a second, then nodded. He pulled a chair over and sat beside his friend. "Sure, Boss...," he said quietly. With a finger under the bearded chin, he turned the precept's face towards him. The hazel eyes had grown brown and dull with pain, but the pupils reacted normally... thank God. "Open up," he said. "It's the erythromycin."
"No," Derek replied. "You both need them.... You have to finish the course."
"Not as bad as you do, Boss," Nick firmly replied. "Now, open up and swallow." He placed the pink tablet on Derek's tongue, then offered him a sip of water.
As Ginge stepped behind Derek, he let out a quiet gasp. "Jesus." He stared at the still pink scars that ringed the precept's neck and wrists. His gaze traveled down his patient's spine... angry stripes marked his back, criss-crossing into an ever thickening web that disappeared into Derek's pants. It was something that the soldier had read about... in history books... The man had been savagely flogged, but rather than his back... his buttocks must have been the primary target. He met Nick's eye and received a silent warning. "Derek... I'm gonna clean your shoulder up.... OK?..." Ginge managed to keep his voice level.
Nick gave the SAS man a half-smile of understanding. "How you feeling?" he asked the precept.
"Not too goot." Derek's accent was thick, his voice husky with exhaustion.
"No kiddin'!... Not 'fine'?" the SEAL teased with affection, gripping Derek's shoulders when he flinched at Ginge's ministrations.
"Sorry...," said Ginge. After swabbing away the remaining blood, he asked, "Derek... can you lie down on your front?... I'll go see how Yusuf's doin'." Again he met Nick's eyes and left him to get the precept settled.
A few minutes later, Yusuf returned to the room carrying the surgical instruments laid carefully on a towel draped tray. The boy's eyes grew wide at the sight of the scars. The English soldier had warned him that the ruhani had been whipped. Did America have religious police, he wondered. Once, on a trip to a Taliban controlled area, he'd been forced to watch a woman nearly beaten to death by order of the Sharia court for wearing makeup beneath her burkha and for teaching girls to read. She had endured a hundred lashes that had torn her back to shreds. He quickly mastered his expression and looked away. He would not dishonor this man.
Ginge followed, chuckling, "God bless the Ruskies.... There's a whole case of vodka in the kitchen." He unscrewed the cap of one bottle and sniffed. "I know it's not the best painkiller, but I've been pissed as a newt more than once on vodka... and don't remember a whole hellava lot about what happened. I'll show you my tattoo some day... and I don't even know a bloody Mary Ann!" He managed a gap-toothed grin.
"You're not drinking!" Nick exclaimed in misunderstanding. "You're SAS... you don't need liquid courage."
"Chill, Indy.... It's for Derek.... OK?... In an ideal world we'd not be giving him alcohol... but this ain't an ideal situation."
The SAS man hunkered down to face the precept. "We could leave the shrapnel alone.... Bandage you up... but it'll only increase the risk of infection.... We might be able to do that with a bullet, but not this."
"He was unconscious," Nick protested. "He was dizzy and threw up. You said there had to be a concussion." He brushed Derek's forehead with the back of his hand and again spoke as if his friend wasn't there. "He's feverish... dammit!... It's too soon for infection." He struggled to swallow down the fear that Derek's temperature was caused by physical and mental strain... that he might be slipping back... at risk of once more becoming that pitiful resident of Wells Ward. He pushed back another fear... the fires... McLean's worry about spontaneous combustion. Christ!... What a mess!
"He's warm," Ginge agreed, then suggested, "maybe it's not connected to the mine.... It could be something he ate... or maybe a cold. His pupils look normal.... The head wound seems to be a clean cut." He turned back to Derek. "Do you feel dizzy... like throwing up?"
"No... not from my head.... It's just a headache," Derek replied quietly. "But the damned pill made me sick." He had to make the right decision. The others were depending on him. They needed him firing on all cylinders. There was something here... something in these caverns that had to be dealt with.... His mind was clear about that... no confusion.... He was certain that the shrapnel had to come out.
Ginge met his eyes. "What say, Derek?... It's not Geneva Gin, but damned near as potent."
Derek nodded, struggled to sit up, then reached for the bottle.
"I'm not so sure 'bout this," Nick fretted. "Boss... booze is the last thing you give a guy with a concussion.... If there's any bleeding...." He left the remainder of the sentence unspoken.
"Nick.... It'll be OK," Derek said quietly. He managed a half-smile of reassurance
for his friend, then took a long slug from the bottle. He shuddered. "Could do with some
ice," he muttered, then chug-a-lugged as much as one breath would allow.
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