Final Disposition (6 page)

      
Not going to run … we’re going to fight.

      He looked down and realized that the fingers of his hands were flexing, as if warming up for the coming events.

      “Okay, guys,” he whispered to himself, “it looks like we know what we’re doing.  Fine by me, but let’s get dressed first.”

      He walked over to the wooded cabined, pulled open the doors, and then cocked his head in surprise as he stared at the neatly-aligned, -stacked and -hung sets of boots, underwear and clothes awaiting their new owner.

      He was even more surprised to find a folded U.S. Army ID card in the breast pocket of what looked like a brand new field jacket.

      The laminated card was comprised of what appeared to be a colorful US Army seal, some kind of mottled black-and-white bar code, some kind of embedded gold-coated microchip, and a series of letters and numbers identifying the man in the left-corner-mounted color photo as CELLARS, COLIN NMN … ARMY … ACTIVE DUTY … O4 … MAJ.

      
Is that what I really look like?
He hesitated. 
Well, I guess there’s an easy way to find out.

      He walked into the bathroom, turned on the light, and stared first at his reflection in the sink mirror and then again at the ID photo.

      
Okay, must have been taken a while ago, my hair was longer then … probably trimmed it short for the suturing … but yeah, that definitely looks like me.  Interesting
, he thought as shut off the bathroom light and walked back to his waiting closetful of clothes.

*     *     *

      Ten minutes later, Cellars — now dressed in rough-surfaced brown boots and a set of Army-green cammies, consisting of computer-patterned pants, shirt and unzipped field jacket with large baggy pockets — folded the fMRI scan, slid it and the small electronic device into the left pocket of the jacket, along with the scissors, a roll of medical tap, the severed ID band and a few other assorted items.

      Then he opened the outer door to his room… and found nurse Lisa Marcini standing there, waiting for him.

      Instead of stepping aside to let him out of the room, she stepped forward, using one hand to gently push him back into the room.

      “Change of plans?” he asked with forced casualness, ignoring the soft bonging in the back of his head as he watched her firmly close the door with her other hand.

      “More like a temporary delay,” she said, meeting his gaze with her flashing dark eyes.  “I want to make sure you’re presentable before we take you out in the public domain.”

      “Okay,” Cellars said agreeably, holding up his arms in a palms-outward position, “how do I look?”

      Marcini cocked her head, examined him briefly, head to boot tip, and nodded approvingly.

      “It looks like everything fits okay.  The jacket’s a little loose, but you’re not going to need it indoors anyway.”

      “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too; but I started to feel a little chilled with just the shirt, and the added layers feel pretty good right about now.”

      “You’re still a little pale, and it looks like you’ve lost a few pounds, so that’s understandable.  I’d say keep on wearing it unless you get too hot,” Marcini said as she stepped forward and took his wrist with her right hand.

      He felt the warmth of her hand seeping through the muscles of his forearm.

      “Pulse feels normal,” she said after a few moments.

      “Really?”  He continued to stare into her dark and now seemingly smoldering eyes.  “I would have guessed ‘elevated’ at the very least … and I’m starting to have second thoughts about this jacket.”

      “Like I said, normal,” she responded with an amused grin, still holding on to his wrist as she reached up with her left hand to check both of his eyes.  “And no signs of lingering concussion — which is pretty amazing, considering the pounding your head must have taken during that explosion.  Any residual headaches?”

      “Mild — nothing a couple of aspirin wouldn’t cure.”

      “We can take care of that.  What about those head wounds?  How do they feel?”

      “Just tender, presumably healing nicely.”

      She nodded in apparent satisfaction.  “So, all things considered, how do you really feel?”

      “Apart from a little voice in the back of my head that’s yelling at me to run away from you as fast as I can, pretty good,” Cellars said.

      “Still no idea what I did to scare that little fellow?” Marcini’s dark eyes flickered with amusement.

      “None whatsoever.”

      “Well, perhaps we can figure out some way to make him feel more comfortable in my presence,” she said softly as she stepped forward and placed the palm of her left hand against his forehead.  “How does he feel about this?”

      Cellars stared into her dark eyes for a long moment.

      “To tell you the truth,” he finally said, “I don’t really care.”

      “Excellent response,” she said.  “And how about this?” 

      Using the palm of her left hand to smooth the finely-checkered green-and-white fabric of his fatigue shirt, she brought the back of his wrist into the soft warmth of her upper torso, reached into her uniform pocket with her left hand — and then slowly rose up on her tiptoes and gently kissed him on the cheek as she slipped something into his shirt pocket.

      Cellars blinked in shock, feeling — rather than hearing — the chime alarms blaring loudly now.

      “Did that help or hurt?” Marcini asked as she stepped back, her eyes flashing wickedly now.

      “Depends,” he said in a raspy whisper.

      “On what?”

      “On how up-to-date you are on CPR.  I think the little guy just fainted.”

      “Good, maybe that’ll keep him quiet long enough for us to get some food in your stomach.  We’ll worry about the resuscitation part later,” Marcini said, her own cheeks dimpling into a wide grin.

      “Sounds good to me,” Cellars said as he stared down at the hand that seemed ready to burn its way into his chest.  “So, this really is my uniform?”

      “Apparently,” Marcini said, sliding her left hand down slightly to brush her index finger across the name tag sewn onto his jacket.  “C-E-L-L-A-R-S.  Yes, I’d say that’s definitely you.”

      “And this thing here?” Cellars asked, pointing to another sewn-on tag on his shirt collar flap.

      “That’s an insignia indicating your rank.”

      “Which is?”

      “You don’t know?”

      “Haven’t a clue.”

      “According to that insignia, you are Major Colin Cellars.”

      “Major … as in U.S. Army Major … above captain, below lieutenant colonel?”

      “That’s right,” Marcini said, nodded slowly, watching Cellar’s eyes.

      “So this is an Army hospital?”

      “A Veteran’s Administration clinic, actually; we don’t have the full services of a hospital.”

      “And where are we, geographically speaking?”

      “Geographically, we’re located in the South Gate Headquarters sector of the Ralph R. Wehinger Army Training Center, which is situated in the south-eastern corner of Jasper County, and about five miles from the county seat of Jasper Springs.”

      “And where would I find Jasper County on a map?”

      “It’s in the south-central area of Oregon.  A very pretty place … mostly mountains and wilderness,” she replied, and then hesitated.  “Do you have any idea where Oregon is?”

      “Actually, I do,” Cellars said.  “Northwest corner of the U.S … on the Pacific Coast … just north of California, south of Washington, and west of Idaho.”

      “And you know that because …?”

      “I know what the map of the U.S. looks like — I can see it in my head — but I have no memory of ever living in Oregon —”

      Cellars hesitated again, and then took in a deep, steadying breath.

      “Take it slow, Colin, there’s no hurry,” Marcini said softly.  “You’ve got all the time in the world to pull your life back together.”

      “— or anywhere else for that matter,” he went on.  “And in that same sense, I don’t feel like I’ve ever worn this uniform before, or ever held the rank of major in any organization.  So, all things considered, I guess I’m feeling pretty disorientated right now.”

      “As would anyone else in your situation,” Marcini said as she walked over to the mobile cart by the bed, checked to make sure the lid of the metal briefcase was securely shut, reflexively thumbed the combination dials as she picked up the case, made a quick scan of the room, and then turned back to Cellars.  “Shall we talk about that in the cafeteria?”

      Cellars suddenly remembered why his stomach seemed to be cramped and aching.  “Yeah, that sounds like a really good idea.”

*     *     *

      Cellars followed his sensuous caretaker to the end of the hallway, waited as she put her right index finger into the glowing blue recess of a fingerprint reader mounted next to the locked exit door, heard the lock snap open, and stepped past her out into a wider corridor comprised of a nurse’s station, a pair of restrooms, three elevators, a stairwell, and what looked like a public waiting room.

      Marcini pulled the hallway door shut, stopped at the nurse’s station to hand the metal briefcase over to the attendant on duty, and then motioned for Cellars to follow her over to the bank of elevators.

      Cellars did so … and immediately found himself standing face-to-face with a very large and visibly-muscular figure dressed in a light green field uniform almost identical to Cellar’s – with the exception of the very distinctive pistol belt, a dangling baton attached to that same belt, and a large triangular olive-green patch on his left arm that said ‘MP’ in large black letters — who showed no intention of moving aside.

      There were sets of five angled stripes sewed to the upper arms of his shirt — three pointing up and two down — and the cloth tag on his shirt read ‘MACGREGOR.’

      “Going somewhere, sir?” the soldier asked.

      “Yes, I’m —”

      “Major Cellars and I are going to the cafeteria, to get something to eat, sergeant,” Lisa Marcini said.  “I’ll stay with him the entire time, and bring him back here when we’re finished.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” the soldier acknowledged as he stepped aside to let Cellars and the uniformed nurse pass.

      They walked over to the elevator bank, pressed the down button, waited for middle elevator door to open, and then stepped inside … immediately followed by Sergeant First Class MacGregor who now carried a heavy field jacket in his thick left hand.

      “We’ll be fine by ourselves, sergeant,” Marcini pointed out.  “We’re just going to the cafeteria and back.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” MacGregor acknowledged again as he reached forward and pressed the button marked ‘B’.

      “Let me guess, sergeant,” Cellars said calmly, staring up at the glowing numbers over the elevator door indicating that the building consisted of four above-ground floors and one basement, “you’re just following your orders.”

      “That’s correct, sir.”

      “And if I were to order you back to your post so that nurse Marcini and I could enjoy a private meal at your local underground cafeteria?”

      “I’d definitely follow my orders, sir.”

      “Mine?”

      “No, sir, the General’s orders.”

      “A
general
ordered you to keep an eye on me?”

      “Not to me, personally; but down through the chain of command, yes, sir.”

      “Why?”

      “I don’t know, sir.  I’ve just been told that the General will be very unhappy with all of us if you happen to … uh … wander away without his permission.”

      Cellars looked over at Marcini who rolled her eyes skyward.

      “Okay, sergeant,” Cellars said agreeably as the elevator came to a slow stop and the door slid open, “lead on, I won’t wander anywhere without you.”

      The clinic’s cafeteria was located at the far end of the basement floor, making it a thirty second walk down a long and very-well-heated corridor that had Cellars sweating by the time they pushed the pair of stainless steel doors open and walked into the glistening thirty-six-table facility with muted overhead lighting, but he didn’t take the jacket off.

      Apart from a pair of maintenance workers sitting at a far corner table, the cavernous cafeteria appeared to be uninhabited … and it was obvious that the cleaned, unmanned and darkened serving counters had been closed for some time.

      Cellars walked over to a small four-chair table in the middle of the cafeteria, stopped and turned to Sergeant First Class MacGregor.  “At the risk of sounding inhospitable, and maybe even ungracious, sergeant, do you think the General would mind terribly if nurse Marcini and I sat by ourselves, and enjoyed each other’s company during dinner, while you sat over there —” Cellars gestured with his head at the row of four empty tables lining the far wall near the entry door — “and kept an observant eye on our activities?”

      “That would be fine … and perfectly understandable, sir,” MacGregor added with a slight leer as he allowed his eyes to travel up and down Lisa Marcini’s fitted uniform before walking over and taking a seat at the table nearest the door.

      “Neanderthal,” Marcini muttered, her eyes glistening with dark amusement that seemed to suggest that appropriate retribution would follow at some future date.  It occurred to Cellars that he probably wouldn’t want to be in MacGregor’s boots when that day came.

      “Maybe he’s just misunderstood,” Cellars suggested as he sat down in one of the chairs facing MacGregor’s position.

      “Not even remotely.  One-track minds are real easy to follow … and even easier to de-rail.  What do you want for dinner?”

      At that moment, she realized Cellars was staring intently at her face.

      “Something wrong, Cowboy?” she asked, meeting his gaze directly, her head tilted quizzically to one side.  “It’s not polite to stare.”