The Gatecrashers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 6 by Fullerton Alexander

Author:Fullerton, Alexander [Fullerton, Alexander]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: McBooks Press
Published: 2006-05-31T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

. . .

Trench leant over the bunk, staring down at him. Looking for something he didn’t find. Outside, the sounds of work in progress were loud and constant—from the deck above, and from the jetty and from Foremost who was secured on the other side—while in this semi-dark cabin the tranquillity was an illusion, a phoney quiet in which Trench’s deep concern for Nick Everard’s life was at odds with his need to be elsewhere—in about half a dozen other places, at this very moment. He asked Lyric’s doctor, Cramphorn, “Is there really a chance he can take in what’s said to him?”

“It’s quite possible, sir. And probably best to assume he can. I mean, for his sake.”

Trench didn’t know what he’d meant by that. Foremost’s doctor—also an RNVR two-striper—saw the frown, and explained quietly, “Sort of to keep him in touch, sir. By engaging his attention, getting the brain back into gear, as it were. Could make a lot of difference.”

Trench’s eyes rested for a moment on this other doctor. He didn’t look much more than twenty years old, but of course he had to be more than that. He nodded. “I see.” Turning back to the man in the bunk: wondering what it would be like to hear things that were said to you but not be able to answer or even signal that you’d heard.

“Are you hearing me, sir?”

To be asked a question would be even more frustrating. But it might be like hearing a voice in a dream, he guessed. He was still looking for reaction—for the movement of an eyelid, the twitch of a muscle—and not seeing any at all. Trench wasn’t enjoying this—either the situation itself or the charade of addressing someone who was so deeply unconscious that it felt like talking to a corpse. He had no confidence in being heard, or of doing any good at all: it was simply a matter of taking these quacks’ word for it, accepting that they’d have to know more about it than he did himself … “It’s Trench here, sir. I expect you feel bloody awful, but the doctors say you’re doing well, so there’s nothing for you to worry about. Just prove them right, get better—and I’ll handle the trip home, you’ve nothing to worry about at all.”

Rubbish. He told himself, If he’s hearing me, he’s thinking, “What a load of codswallop!” He’d glanced round again, at the two doctors. Feeling idiotic … This cabin belonged to Lyric’s first lieutenant, or had done until it had been commandeered to become Nick Everard’s sickroom.

Trench forced himself to start yacking again … “Everything’s under control, sir. We’re at Vaenga, in the Kola Inlet. I diverted because if we’d stuck to the Archangel plan there might not have been much left of us by the time we got there. You’re on board Lyric—they picked you up when Calliope went down. You’re in what the doc calls a coma, as a result of hypothermia—that’s a technical term for too long in cold water.

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