opposite him was a wall of stereo and video equipment. And above him—set into the bed's headboard—was a sophisticated monitoring computer, from which depended several wires and tubes that were attached to him, keeping him alive and full of the proper juices. He hardly noticed the dull pain in his hand from the IV unit.
There were no windows.
His feelings told him that he was somewhere underground. The walls resonated solidness , a sense of profound impenetrableness which effectively kept the outside world at bay.
He looked toward the door and saw two people conversing. One of them was quite tall. He wore a stethoscope around his neck, but the rest of him belied the standard took of a physician. The man wore a gray T-shirt that had stenciled across its chest, "Property of UCSB," and the rest of him was comfortably attired in tennis shoes and Levis, worn and faded in all the expected places.
Then Nicholas recognized the individual standing next to the doctor.
"Salazar," Nicholas said in a somewhat stronger voice.
It was reassuring to see Melissa Salazar waiting for him to regain consciousness. On the other hand, a number of things mitigated against his euphoria on discovering that he was still alive. The first was the fact that he was underground. The second was the idea that the director of the Pentagon's Project Foresee had decided to supervise his recovery in person. If Melissa Salazar wanted to be present to pick up and dust off one of her special Strategics, then something rather dreadful was up.
Salazar and the casually attired doctor turned and walked over to Nicholas's bed.
"Welcome back to the real world, Nick," the man said. "I'm Dr. Massingale. How do you feel?"
He proceeded to take Nicholas's pulse, gazing up at the computer screen on the console above him.
"I'm thirsty as hell," Nicholas said.
The doctor laughed comfortingly. He poured Nick a glass of clear, sparkling water.
"Go easy, now," the doctor insisted.
Beside him, the director of Project Foresee was silent, a look of concern on her face.
"You've been through a lot," Massingale said. "But you're going to be all right."
Nick drank the water slowly but steadily. He trembled as his body took in the refreshing liquid. Handing the glass back to the doctor, he settled back into the huge comfort of the pillows.
Melissa Salazar leaned over him. "How do you feel, Nick? You OK?"
"I feel like shit four ways to Sunday, is how I feel."
The director of Foresee smiled wryly, her dark brown eyes friendly. Melissa Salazar, fifteen years Nicholas's senior, had not a single gray hair on her head, although her eyes always seemed weighted by nights of little or no sleep and days of unbearable tension. Like the doctor, she was casually dressed, which was unusual for her. She wore a mid-length skirt, a cotton blouse, and boots, which suggested that she hadn't had time to dress in her usual businesslike manner. Another bad sign, Nicholas realized. Melissa Salazar earned the money to dress well, and dress well she did.
But not at the moment.
"Sorry I screwed things up, Sal. I just couldn't find the Prime Minister. I tried. I really did."
Dr. Massingale punched data into the computer board above the bed. Melissa smiled. A faint hint of her perfume could be discerned despite the hospital's antiseptic smell.
"Actually," she began, "you did a better job of locating the possible source of the attack than we'd hoped. We had a devil of a time getting you out of Mnemos Nine, though, after you pinpointed the location of the bomb. The bomb wouldn't have gone off right at your feet if we'd gotten you out of the system when we were supposed to. We're the ones who should do the apologizing, not you. It must have been quite a scare."
Scare was not quite the word for what he had felt, which was maybe why he could feel the presence of some sedative in his body. The shock had been substantial.
"Everything's OK," she went on in sure, confident tones. "We're at Vandenberg
There were no windows.
His feelings told him that he was somewhere underground. The walls resonated solidness , a sense of profound impenetrableness which effectively kept the outside world at bay.
He looked toward the door and saw two people conversing. One of them was quite tall. He wore a stethoscope around his neck, but the rest of him belied the standard took of a physician. The man wore a gray T-shirt that had stenciled across its chest, "Property of UCSB," and the rest of him was comfortably attired in tennis shoes and Levis, worn and faded in all the expected places.
Then Nicholas recognized the individual standing next to the doctor.
"Salazar," Nicholas said in a somewhat stronger voice.
It was reassuring to see Melissa Salazar waiting for him to regain consciousness. On the other hand, a number of things mitigated against his euphoria on discovering that he was still alive. The first was the fact that he was underground. The second was the idea that the director of the Pentagon's Project Foresee had decided to supervise his recovery in person. If Melissa Salazar wanted to be present to pick up and dust off one of her special Strategics, then something rather dreadful was up.
Salazar and the casually attired doctor turned and walked over to Nicholas's bed.
"Welcome back to the real world, Nick," the man said. "I'm Dr. Massingale. How do you feel?"
He proceeded to take Nicholas's pulse, gazing up at the computer screen on the console above him.
"I'm thirsty as hell," Nicholas said.
The doctor laughed comfortingly. He poured Nick a glass of clear, sparkling water.
"Go easy, now," the doctor insisted.
Beside him, the director of Project Foresee was silent, a look of concern on her face.
"You've been through a lot," Massingale said. "But you're going to be all right."
Nick drank the water slowly but steadily. He trembled as his body took in the refreshing liquid. Handing the glass back to the doctor, he settled back into the huge comfort of the pillows.
Melissa Salazar leaned over him. "How do you feel, Nick? You OK?"
"I feel like shit four ways to Sunday, is how I feel."
The director of Foresee smiled wryly, her dark brown eyes friendly. Melissa Salazar, fifteen years Nicholas's senior, had not a single gray hair on her head, although her eyes always seemed weighted by nights of little or no sleep and days of unbearable tension. Like the doctor, she was casually dressed, which was unusual for her. She wore a mid-length skirt, a cotton blouse, and boots, which suggested that she hadn't had time to dress in her usual businesslike manner. Another bad sign, Nicholas realized. Melissa Salazar earned the money to dress well, and dress well she did.
But not at the moment.
"Sorry I screwed things up, Sal. I just couldn't find the Prime Minister. I tried. I really did."
Dr. Massingale punched data into the computer board above the bed. Melissa smiled. A faint hint of her perfume could be discerned despite the hospital's antiseptic smell.
"Actually," she began, "you did a better job of locating the possible source of the attack than we'd hoped. We had a devil of a time getting you out of Mnemos Nine, though, after you pinpointed the location of the bomb. The bomb wouldn't have gone off right at your feet if we'd gotten you out of the system when we were supposed to. We're the ones who should do the apologizing, not you. It must have been quite a scare."
Scare was not quite the word for what he had felt, which was maybe why he could feel the presence of some sedative in his body. The shock had been substantial.
"Everything's OK," she went on in sure, confident tones. "We're at Vandenberg
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