Certain Jeopardy (2 page)

“Here it comes,” he said.

They had trained for this. In the worst of situations, a team leader might have to call for bombs to be dropped on his location. His team’s only advantage was in knowing when it would happen and taking cover.

He waited. One second. Two seconds.

An ice pick jammed his eardrums, and a flash of light pushed through his closed eyelids. The ground seemed to depress as if a giant foot had stomped on his position, intent on crushing him like a bug under a boot.

The world shook.

Heat poured down like ejecta from a blast furnace.

Moyer clenched his jaw. Dirt and stones rained down like hail. The concussive force of the bombs pummeled the ground, while two dozen fists pounded Moyer’s body at once.

Then darkness sucked Moyer’s consciousness into a void.

* * *

“… DO … READ?”

Moyer came to with a start. Where was he? What happened? Two seconds later it all came back to him. He coughed up a lungful of dust and rolled out into his trench. His head hurt like his brain was trying to break free of his skull. A consistent, annoying tone played in his ears. Something wet hung just beneath his nose. He raised a hand and ran a finger along his upper lip—blood.

“Quebec … come in.”

Moyer blinked a few times. The radio? Junior? He crawled to the sat radio. Junior lay still in his hole.

“Quebec-Nine-Seven, this is Storm One-Three, do you copy?”

Moyer snatched the mike. “Storm One-Three, this is Quebec-Nine-Seven, stand by one.”

“Roger, Nine-Seven. Good to hear a voice.”

“Junior?” Moyer laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Junior. You okay?”

Rasor opened his eyes, looked around, but didn’t move. “We dead, Boss?”

“Not yet, but the night’s not over.”

Junior slipped from his cave, careful to stay low.

Moyer triggered his radio. “Who’s still with me?”

“I’m here, Boss,” Shaq said softly.

“Oorah, Boss.” No matter how bad things got, Colt remained Army.

“I don’t recall reading about this in the recruitment brochure, Boss.”

“It’s in the fine print, Caraway. You with us, Doc?”

“Shaken and stirred but still in one piece.”

Relief flooded Moyer. “Injuries?”

“I could use a nurse, Boss.”

“You’re hurt, Caraway?”

“No, I just like nurses.”

Before Moyer could respond, Shaq spoke up. “I don’t see any movement. I think that did the trick.”

Overhead the F-18s scorched the sky. Junior’s satellite radio crackled. “Quebec-Nine-Seven, we see no movement around your position. Repeat, we see no movement.”

“Understood, One-Three … and thanks,” Junior said.

“Don’t mention it. Extraction copter is ten minutes out. Do you have wounded?”

“Negative, One-Three, but I don’t think anyone wants to do that again.”

“Roger that, Nine-Seven. Glad we could help.”

Moyer glanced at the sky. “I don’t know who that guy is, but I think we owe him dinner.” He activated his radio. “Let’s secure the area. Slow and easy.” He turned to Junior. “You stay by the sat. I wanna know when the helo is two minutes out.”

“Will do.”

The scene looked as if it had been snatched from the pages of a Stephen King novel. Bodies lay akimbo across a field of snow and in the crevasses of rocks. Some bled from the ears and eyes; others were riddled with shrapnel, pincushions for superheated metal fragments. Much of the snow had been melted by the six blasts and pooled around lifeless forms.

Smoke settled to the ground, soiling what snow remained. The site of what had been a fierce firefight moments ago was now shrouded in funerary silence.

A faint
thumpa-thumpa
of large rotors grew in volume. Through his earpiece Moyer heard Junior. “Chopper is two minutes out, Boss.”

“Grab your gear. I want everyone ready to evac in two. Is that clear?”

“OORAH.” The response came in unison.

Moyer started to return to his trench when he noticed one of his men standing a short distance away. “Colt, get a move on.”

J.J. didn’t budge. Moyer jogged to his position. Colt stood over the body of the first man shot in the fray, the one who had pointed in their direction.

“I don’t think he was Taliban, Boss.” Colt’s voice was soft. “I think he and his buddy were just shepherds.”

Moyer could see the man was troubled. He had fought bravely and in past missions always showed courage and dedication. He had never heard Colt question an order. “Noncombatants die in war. You know that. We did what we had to do.”

“I know.”

“Got your Christian conscience upset, does it?” Colt was the only committed churchgoer on the team. Until now Moyer had never considered that a weakness.

“I guess so.”

“You gonna be all right? You still with us?”

“Yeah, Boss.”

“Then get your gear.”

“Will do.” Colt jogged to his trench.

A CH-47 Chinook helicopter appeared overhead, its back rampopening as it descended. The vehicle was loud, gangly, and the most beautiful thing Moyer had ever seen.

THEY SAT IN THE
“special” room reserved for large parties or VIP patrons. Ricardo Estevez’s father served the three men personally, but the busy restaurant kept him dashing from table to kitchen to table. Ricardo’s job was to keep the water glasses filled, the beer flowing, and warm tortillas on the table. His father had been clear—Ricardo was never to be out of earshot of the three customers. Until they left, they were to be his only concern.

“You are not to bother these men,” his father said. “Understood? The two foreigners are guests of a very important man.”

“You mean, Minister Santi?”

“Yes, and keep your voice low. Minister Santi comes here because he knows that we will provide for his privacy.”

“And because you have the best kitchen staff in Caracas.”

Reuben Estevez slapped his son on the back and laughed. “Are you trying to get a raise out of your old man with flattery?”

Ricardo laughed and the sound of it lit up his father’s face.

The evening passed smoothly. The men ate their meals and Ricardo brought whatever they desired. After the dinner the three began to talk in hushed tones. With little to do, Ricardo cleared the table, brought more drinks, and then retired behind a curtain that separated the large room from the passageway to the kitchen. The small space contained a sink and a set of wood shelves that held plates, silverware, napkins, and glasses. Behind the curtain was also a small stack of Spanish and English comic books that Richard read on his breaks. At sixteen he had yet to outgrow the need for superheroes. His life consisted of school and work. Nothing exciting ever happened. Comic books provided a vicarious means to a life of adventure.

Ten minutes later he set the magazine down, peeked through the curtain at the men, and his stomach dropped: He had left a plate on the table. His father would consider this a lapse of restaurant etiquette. The men were bent over the table, heads huddled close, lost in the conversation. What appeared to be a map lay before them.

Ricardo slipped through the curtain and walked softly to the table. No one seemed to notice him. He recognized Foreign Minister Santi from the newspaper his father made him read every day. His father believed in self-education and insisted Ricardo stay current.

The two foreigners were strangers to him. Their skin was slightly darker than his, except below the beard line. He assumed the men once sported facial hair but had recently shaved it off.

Ricardo moved slowly so as not to startle the men. As he reached the table he picked up snippets of the conversation. “Hector Cenobio … nuclear … fast capture … airport … nuclear … Iran.” The words meant little to him at first.

He reached for the offending plate, and the conversation abruptly ended. The harsh gaze of the three men froze Ricardo mid-motion.

“I forgot this plate,” he stammered. “May I bring you anything else?”

“How long have you been in the room?” Santi snapped.

“Only a moment. I came to clear the last plate and to see if I can be of service to you.”

“What do you mean? Service?” Ricardo thought he heard the foreign minister growl.

“I only meant to ask if you wanted more water or beer or perhaps dessert.”

“No. Take the plate and leave.”

“Yes, sir. I am sorry I disturbed you. I will wait behind the curtain should you need me.”

“Curtain?” Santi looked over to the small room where Ricardo had been moments before. One of the foreigners sprung from his seat and yanked back the curtain. The small room was empty.

“Is something wrong?” Ricardo felt his heart skip.

“Leave us,” Santi ordered.

Ricardo retreated quickly and pulled the curtain closed.

Moments later the three men left.

The rest of the night, Ricardo waited for the scathing words of his father. His father was fair and loving but strict, and to offend such an important customer as Foreign Minister Andriano Santi would be inexcusable. But the tongue-lashing never came. Could it be that Santi had not complained?

Ricardo spent the remaining hours helping to clean the kitchen and close up the restaurant. Just before midnight, he dragged a large can of trash out the back door and into the alley. He struggled to lift the heavy plastic container filled with unfinished meals, empty containers, and a broken dish or two. The contents raised a clatter as they were poured into the large dumpster. Then Ricardo turned back toward the rear door of his father’s business.

“Boy.”

Ricardo looked up. A dim light at the end of the alley struggled to push back the darkness but gave just enough light for him to see a man silhouetted there.

The man raised his arm and pointed.

“May I help you?”

Ricardo’s head snapped back. A half second later something hot punched him in the chest and he took two steps back. Something thin and white came into view. The moon. A sliver of the moon. But the moon was in the sky, how could he … ? It took a moment for Ricardo to realize he was no longer standing.

The moon dissolved into the blackness.

“… BLOOD … UNCOMMON … TESTS …”

Eric Moyer didn’t respond. The voice was little more than background music. Images that flashed like a strobe on his brain occupied all his gray cells.

“… your age … health … worry …”

The mental pictures flashed one after another like images cast from an old slide projector. He could almost hear the
click-clack,
click-clack
of slides moving up and down in the carousel.

“… Mr. Moyer …”

He saw his wife, strawberry blonde hair tickling the tops of her shoulders when she wore that yellow sundress he liked so much. Her image faded, replaced by Gina, his twelve-year-old daughter. He had no free will with her. She could ask for the moon to be painted pink, and Moyer would grab a ladder and have a go at it. Rob was a different matter. Sixteen years old and pushing every border and pressing every button Moyer had. They had argued just the night before, and Moyer lowered the boom. Odd, he was having trouble remembering what the argument had been about.

“Sir? Mr. Moyer?”

Another flash, another image. One from yesterday. From his bathroom.

“Are you all right, Mr. Moyer?”

Moyer looked up. The question came from a bulky man seated behind a mahogany desk. A half halo of hair reached from ear to ear, his smooth, clean dome reflecting the overhead lights. He shifted in his chair and straightened his white lab coat. Stitched over the left breast were the words
Miles Lawton, M.D.

“Yes. I’m fine. Sorry. Didn’t sleep well last night, so I’m a little drifty.”

Lawton nodded. “Understandable. This kind of thing can cause a great deal of stress.”

“Normally, I’m pretty good with stress.”

“No one is immune, Mr. Moyer.” The doctor directed his gaze to the chart on the desk. “I notice that both of your parents are dead. It says here that your mother died of … a heart attack at the age of sixty-eight. Is that correct?”

If it weren’t, I wouldn’t have written it down.
“Yes. A massive coronary.”

“Was she under a doctor’s care?”

“Not for heart trouble. She had always been in good health, and I know she had frequent checkups. She was a bit of a health fanatic.”

“I see. And your father? You checked off ‘deceased’ but don’t give a cause. May I ask how he died?”

“Colon cancer.”

The doctor looked up. “I imagine that has ratcheted up your anxiety some. Understandable.” He made a notation in the chart. “This is your first time in our office, Mr. Moyer—”

“Call me Eric.”

“Very well, Eric. As I was saying, this is your first time with us. Do you have another doctor? I may need to consult with him.”

“No,” Moyer lied. He was good at lying. It came with the job. “I’ve been healthy all my life, and I have a thing about doctors.”

“Well, many men do. When was your last checkup?”

“Maybe ten years ago. I don’t remember. I switched my life insurance and they insisted that I get a checkup.” Another lie. He’d had a routine physical six months ago.

“That’s a long time between checkups.”

“Like I said, I have a thing about doctors.”

Lawton smiled, but Moyer didn’t see any humor in it. “Well, as I was saying, blood in the stool is not unusual. The blood can originate from anywhere in the digestive tract. Overall, your health seems excellent, but the guaiac smear test did show the presence of blood. Of course, it can’t determine cause, but there’s no reason to assume the worst. True, blood appearing as it has in your case may indicate colon cancer, but there are many other things—less challenging things—that can cause such a symptom: bleeding esophageal varices, a polyp, an ulcer, or angiodysplasia of the colon. Although the latter usually occurs in older people.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Angiodysplasia of the colon simply means that fragile and stressed blood vessels in the colon release blood into the GI tract.”

“Oh.” Moyer twisted in his chair. He didn’t feel comforted. “What next, Doc?”

“Several things. We need to take a blood sample and look for cancer markers, check for anemia and a few other things. Of course, we need to schedule a colonoscopy; that’s the best diagnostic tool. We just go inside the colon and take a look. That can be a little uncomfortable, so they’ll put you under for a short time.”

“How soon?”

“I’ll have the nurse set up for the blood draw, and we’ll get that to the lab. She’ll also set up an appointment for the colonoscopy. If they find anything suspicious, they’ll take a biopsy.” He paused. “Look, I know this is scary, but you’re in good hands. We’ll find out what the problem is and deal with it.”

“And if it is cancer?”

“There’s no need to worry about that now.”

“Answer the question, Doc.”

Lawton frowned. “If it’s cancer, then many factors come into play. Size, location, spread, and a dozen other things. If a tumor is found, you’ll be scheduled for surgery.”

“Surgery didn’t save my dad.”

“Medicine has advanced since then. Most likely surgery will take care of everything. There may be some chemo involved. There’s no use in speculating until we know what we’re dealing with.” He rose. “I’ll get the nurse started. You can wait here if you like.”

He moved to the closed door and opened it, but before crossing the threshold he turned. “Try not to worry, Mr. Moyer … Eric.”

“Sure, Doc. No worries.”

Lawton closed the door behind him, and Moyer brought his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes. Everything was going to change.
Everything
. He shouldn’t even be in this office. There were doctors he should report to, but if they knew they would immediately—

No, he wouldn’t tell them yet. If the tests come back positive, then he’d have to let them know. But maybe it was one of the things the doc had said. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe after the surgery he could return to work. After all, he was only thirty-eight and in far better shape than most men half his age.

He chastised himself for the thought. He knew several people who had that kind of surgery, and it had taken months, maybe a year, for them to get up to speed. He doubted he could ever return to the thing he loved.

And then there was his family. They’d sacrificed so much because of him. How would he tell his wife?
When
would he tell his wife?

Moyer had gotten where he was in part by believing himself invincible, invulnerable. Superman in a different costume. Now …

His cell phone chimed. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the caller ID. There was no name, just a phone number:
8035559115
. Only three of those numbers mattered to him: 911. Moyer’s heart began to pound like a piston in a NASCAR engine.

He rose, pocketed the phone, and marched from the doctor’s office and through the lobby. Sixty seconds later, he pulled his car from the parking lot.

His only thought:
Why did I have to pick a doctor so far from
base?