Leon Uris - A God In Ruins

The doctor scribbled a note to Quinn. “IV needs morphine.”

The weight of one terrible decision after another fell on Quinn as Jarvis added more bandages to his head. If IV took morphine, IV could go ga-ga and incoherent. On the other hand, IV was going to have to go through excruciating pain without strong medication. Sorry, IV, Quinn said to himself, we need you coherent.

Quinn lifted his hand and gave a thumbs-down to Dr. Wheat.

Fort Urbakkan grew smaller and smaller, its great courtyard filled with survivors, now firing aimlessly.

RHEIN-MAIN MILITARY CLINIC, FRANKFURT

It was a rare non-dank day. A kiss of sunshine flowed over the solarium. Quinn aimed his wheelchair at the warmth and held his face up. Oh, that feels good. I’ll be out of the darkness soon.

The heavy bandage kept him from scratching at the itch across his forehead. How many stitches did the doctor sayr1 More than four hundred invisible stitches to close the underlayers of skin. You lucky bastard, he thought.

The rest of it? Strange stuff, but for shrapnel head wounds, his lasting damage would be minimal. The right eye had escaped injury, the migraine headaches would simmer down in time, and the scar would smooth out to a thin line. He’d even be able to grow hair back over the seven-inch trail from the back of his neck to his temple.

Dr. Llewellyn Comfort, an eminent plastic surgeon, had been flown over from London for the operation. Dr. Comfort’s skills were apparent as he softly hummed arias from La Boheme and Tosca as he worked. Quinn had remained conscious and exchanged banter with the doctor.

Quinn tightened up and emitted a pained wince of remembrance now, under

his wrappings. He could think outside of the raid for a time, but the

cycle always closed: Jeremiah Duncan dead, Novinski dead, Cherokee dead, Marsh dead, their faces and body parts blobbing off him, his vision blinded by his own blood .. .

Nightmare! How in the name of God had he managed to pilot the SCARAB to rendezvous with the tanker plane with Barakat reading coordinates on a map, a pair of field compasses, IV rasping out instructions, and Grubb and Jarvis placing Quinn’s hands on the controls. Rocking and thumping over mountainous desert with a Marine-load of sallow green-skinned men deep in prayer.

“Hey, Gunner.” Someone interrupted his memory chain. It was the nurse, the kindly nurse who rubbed against him whenever the occasion presented itself. She wanted to baptize him in waters of compassion. “It says on your chart that Dr. Comfort is going to remove your bandages today.”

“It’s going to be nice to unglue my eyes.”

“The doctor immobilized them so you wouldn’t inadvertently tug on your stitches.”

She patted his face, old Mandy did, and sighed a companionable sigh, then set his wheelchair into motion.

“Where we going? I don’t have to whittle yet,” Quinn said. “The sun feels good.”

“There’s someone here to see you,” Mandy answered. “There’s a quiet little room off to the side.”

The big door bumped open, and as Quinn drew a breath, he knew. “Greer?” he whispered, barely audible.

“How in the name of—“

“It’s that stuff you’re wearing, aroma of boys’ locker room.”

“It’s Arpege, and you started me off on it. Too bad you can’t see me, I look great.”

After all the bloody years, boom, in she walks, just like that. Hi,

stranger, remember me? “Well, now, let me guess,” Quinn said. “How

did Greer know Quinn was in Frankfurt? What is it that you own? A

radio and TV network, forty-six papers, seven magazines, and

satellites-or ama His heart speeded when her lips found his cheek.

“Well,” he said, “there’s good news. My dick just tingled. It’s still working. How’s Vampira, the media queen?”

“Hey, man, I’m just a salaried employee of Warren Crowder—“

“.. . of We Own the World, Inc.”

“I’m, in fact, the CEO of a medium-large division.”

“I heard you’ve elevated the face of television and radio programming clear up to semiliterate.”

“Did you know that the Great Symphony Orchestras of America series draws more than arena football and women’s fight-night combined? Might I say I’m friggin’ proud of the fact that I can still find a civilization breathing under all the sitcoms and sludge talk shows. How do I do it? I find subjects on the ad nauseam channels and packages culture. Shakespeare sells corn flakes.”

“Yeah,” Quinn said, “Disney makes dirty adult pictures now, too. But here we are talking shop. How did you find me?”

“I never lost you, Quinn. I always had an eye out.”

“What do you know about my recent past?”

“Marine Recreational and Morale team raided and flattened—no, obliterated—an ancient mountaintop Persian fort near the Great Salt Desert, snatched Bandar Barakat, and made a clean escape.”

“So, news of the raid is out?”

“No, not exactly,” Greer answered. “A few rumors, mostly wild guesses.

Barakat’s banker gave me the first tip. I took it from there.”

“Then it’s not out ...”

“The President called me in and asked us not to run with the story,” Greer said. “He realizes he can’t sit on it too much longer. So the White House wants to call a press conference and put Barakat on display. Major anti-terrorist coup.”

“You agreed to give up a scoop like that?”

“Sounds a little corny, but even though I’m in the media, it doesn’t mean that I can’t make an unselfish gesture for the good of my country.”

“Ah, but your colleagues will chastise you. They will squirt you with witch’s bile for denying the public’s right to know.”

“After which we’ll hold panels on all channels about media overkill and media responsibility .. . until the next big story comes up. Yeah, bud, but try to have democracy without us.”

“So, when does the public learn about the Urbakkan raid?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“What’s going to happen to RAM Company?”

“They’re trying to decide whether to disband RAM, integrate it into a larger strike force, or just continue to keep RAM at the ready. There will probably be a congressional investigation. Anyhow, Quinn, you’re above it all. We got us a genuine American hero.”

“Everyone on the raid was a hero.”

“Aw, shucks, gee whiz, ma’am,” she mocked.

“Greer. You were born with a cynical hair up your butt. I couldn’t even try to make you understand.”

“Yeah,” she said, “boys’ bonding stuff.”

“All right, we have established the following: You are a big hitter with Crowder, multi-global double universal, simultaneously broadcasting twenty sporting events, including roller blade cliff jumping. What I want to know is why you returned to me eight months of unopened letters and why you fled New York when I came to see you.”

“You know why, dammit!”

“I’ll tell you what I know. A broken heart is not a metaphor. That whack I got in the back of my head never gave me the pain I had over you.”

“Baby.. .” she whispered, and touched his cheek. He reached out to grab her hand, but she took it way.

“Okay,” Quinn said. “You’ve shown me how clever you are and how you have filled your responsibility to our president by giving up the scoop of the year. Anything else?”