Mike Maden - Drone Threat

“Hold your horses, fella.”

The voice was familiar. Pearce turned to look.

Myers smiled at him. “Welcome back, sleepyhead. Better leave that tube alone until someone can take it out for you.”

Pearce nodded. He couldn’t speak with the feeding tube, and his throat was sore and parched. Myers looked tired. She reached for the call button. A pretty Ghanaian nurse soon appeared. She gently extricated the feeding tube and took his vitals. “Everything looks good, Mr. Pearce. I’ll call the doctor. She should be back to see you shortly.” She poured him a glass of water, which Pearce drank greedily. She left, shutting the door behind her to give them some privacy.

“So what’s the story?” Pearce asked in a croaking voice. “The last thing I remember was Ian yelling something in my comms.”

“You were in an explosion. Knocked out cold. Good thing Stella knows CPR.”

“Stella? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. She stayed here with me the first few days but I sent her home to get some rest.”

“How long have I been in here?”

“You’ve been in a medically induced coma for seven days. She and Ian got you to an emergency room and then arranged to have you transferred here to the neurology department at the University of Michigan. It’s one of the best in the nation.”

“Neurology? You mean brain damage. I mean, more than usual.”

Myers couldn’t help but grin. Pearce always made her laugh. “You had some serious brain swelling going on. The coma gave your brain a chance to heal itself. The prognosis is good.”

“Speaking of which, how is your noggin?”

“All checked out.”

Pearce nodded at her left arm, covered up in a sleeved jacket. “What about that?”

“Passed clean through.”

“That’s lucky.”

“A few stitches, oral antibiotics. Should heal completely within eight weeks. But we were talking about you.”

“Oh, yeah.” He took another sip of water and coughed a little. Then he took another. “Brain damage, you said.”

Myers’s grin slipped away. “I’ll let the doctor fill in the details.”

“I’m a big boy. Tell me what you know.”

“You definitely suffered some traumatic brain injury. But the MRI scans they ran showed you had previous brain injuries. Some quite serious. Probably from combat.”

“Comes with the job.”

“Helps explain the anger issues.”

“Some of them.” Pearce wanted to fill her in on what he’d been going through the last few days during the crisis but decided against it. She seemed stressed enough.

There was a soft knock on the door before it swung open.

“Mr. Pearce? I’m Dr. Guth.” She extended her small, fine-boned hand. Pearce was afraid he’d crush it in his large paw. The diminutive physician looked as if she were in her early twenties. Without the white coat and name tag, he might have mistaken her for a college student.

“Thanks for the help, doc.”

Dr. Guth nodded at Myers. “Good to see you again, Madam President. I mean, Margaret. Sorry.”

“I’m glad you two finally got to meet,” Myers said. “It was a rather one-sided conversation the two of you were having until today.”

“She hasn’t left your side since the day you arrived,” Guth said. “As bad as the food is here, that’s saying something. You’re a lucky man.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Have you both had a chance to talk?” Dr. Guth asked.

“Briefly.”

“I know you’ll both want to catch up, but I wanted to stop by and give you a quick overview of where things stand right now and the path forward. But the good news is that while you’ve suffered some severe TBI recently and in the past, there’s no reason not to expect a full recovery of cognitive and vocational function over time with appropriate therapies. But then there’s the other issue.”

Pearce raised an unruly eyebrow. “What issue?”

Guth shared a look with Myers. “Since you were unconscious, Margaret was the only person I could consult with regarding your medical history. Everything she described to me sounds like a classic case of PTSD, though technically I’m not able to offer you a formal diagnosis.”

Guth pulled up her tablet and swiped it for her notes. “You have extensive combat experience. Combat can cause traumatic brain injury or PTSD or both. The symptoms for both overlap and the treatments for TBI can be different than for PTSD. You need a skilled clinician to fully assess your situation and design a customized treatment plan. The VA has established the PolyTrauma System of Care for people exactly like you, and I’m recommending you to the PolyTrauma Network Site at the D.C. VA center as soon as you are discharged.”

“When’s that?” Pearce asked.

Guth smiled. “I want to keep you under observation for a little while. You’re bound to feel some physical symptoms — blurred vision, headaches, that sort of thing. And don’t be surprised if there’s some memory loss. But those should all clear up quickly. I’ll discharge you tomorrow morning if you feel up to it.”

“I’m ready now,” Pearce said.

Guth smiled kindly, as if addressing the village idiot. “But I’m afraid I’m not.” She tapped her tablet. “I’ll have someone come up from the kitchen and take your order. Try to eat and drink as much as you can.” She turned back to Pearce. “You can except a full recovery if you decide to do whatever it takes to get better.”

Pearce nodded. “That’s the plan.”

“Good. TBI is nothing to fool around with. And, Mr. Pearce, that means taking it easy for the next few weeks. Your brain needs time to heal. I understand you were up for some serious government post but I highly recommend you put that on hold for a while. You don’t need to do anything but rest and maybe watch a ballgame or two for the next few weeks. Okay?”

Myers resisted the temptation to shout amen.

“One more thing,” Guth said. Her brow furrowed. “I don’t want to cause you any alarm but I need you to be aware of the possibility of CTE.”

“Chronic traumatic encephalopathy,” Myers said. She had plenty of time to Google it while Pearce was unconscious.

Pearce saw the look on Myers’s face. Apparently this was the “not great” part of the news she couldn’t share before. He’d heard of it before. “Like the football players get. Comes with repeated blows to the head. That isn’t exactly me.”

“I agree. But at least one study indicates that a single incidence of blast exposure can cause the condition. CTE is a degenerative disease that eventuates in death.” Guth laid a hand on Pearce’s shoulder. “I’m only telling you all of this because I want you to take your situation seriously. I have no idea at all if you are suffering from the condition because the only way to confirm a diagnosis of CTE is an autopsy.”

“I’d just as soon skip that,” Pearce said, grinning.

Guth smiled back. “Me too. But you need to get to the VA as quickly as possible for evaluation and treatment — and follow their directions to the letter. Am I being clear?”

Pearce nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good. I’m confident you’ll be just fine. I’ll check back later this afternoon, but don’t hesitate to call me if you have any questions before then.”

Pearce and Myers thanked her and she left to finish her rounds.

Pearce asked Myers. “So what’s going on with the war?”

“Didn’t you hear the doctor? You need to let your brain rest.”

“I can turn on the TV if you prefer.”

“Just for the record, being a wisenheimer isn’t one of your symptoms.”

“Seriously. What’s going on?”

Myers sighed. Pearce was relentless. “The bombing campaign against Raqqa has ceased. Civilian casualties are estimated to be in the tens of thousands. ISIS has declared victory even though American and Saudi troops are on their way to the city. There have been terror attacks all across Europe. Baghdad, Doha, and even Saint Petersburg have been hit as well. Lone wolf, mostly. Light casualties but lots of press attention.”