This story is a group
effort. It was written from an idea
offered by Fidelma, with suggestions from Lillian as I went along, and serious
advise from Redwood before it could be called ready for public consumption. It first appeared on the Sub Pen List.
This story was written
for Liz.
HINDSIGHT
By
C. Lyn Barrow
The Sick Bay was quiet,
the intensity of the lighting lowered to a subdued level that would not disturb
the sleeping man should he awaken, not that Jamieson expected that to happen
any time soon. But it was Commander Lee
Crane who lay in the bunk and he had a new appreciation for the man’s
abilities, even if those abilities were what had brought him to this
condition. A week ago he would have
sedated Crane, more or less confident that the medication would be enough to
keep him immobile for hours, but that was then, before the brief mission on
which the doctor had been obliged to accompany him. Brief....
Thankfully so. And it had been
thanks to Crane, alone, that it had been completed to the satisfaction of the
officials at ONI and the Pentagon.
Dr. Will Jamieson leaned
back in the molded chair that had been drawn over to the injured man’s
bedside. The chair had seldom been empty
that afternoon, occupied either by the Admiral or the XO. At one point he knew that even Kowalski had
stationed himself there, keeping vigil over his captain with the devotion of a
faithful hound. The comparison brought a
weak smile to the physician’s mouth.
Seaman Kowalski held an admiration for the young captain that few could
equal, even the Skipper’s long-time friend, and executive officer Chip
Morton. Perhaps it was the difference in
their ranks, perhaps it was just the difference in the men, but where Morton
railed against his friend’s involvement in ONI missions, sought to dissuade him
from the dangerous assignments, Kowalski never questioned his decisions, or if
he did, he never allowed anyone to know.
And he wasn’t the only one of the crew to hold the Skipper in high
esteem. They had proven their devotion
to him, as he had proven his own to them time and again.
Time and again.
Too many times, and
there was no reason to believe that it would not happen again.
From Dr. William
Jamieson’s first moment aboard Seaview
he had felt the difference in the atmosphere on this boat from others he had
served aboard. There was an electricity,
a confidence exuded by every member of the crew, not just the command
staff. There was a sense of cooperation
on Seaview he had quickly realized,
the kind of teamwork that other vessels could only aspire to, and it could all
be tracked back to the dark-haired young captain and his inherent knack of
bringing out the best in each of his men.
All his men... except
for the Chief Medical Officer who had allowed only his worst side to show,
Jamieson berated himself. All he ever
did was nag at the Captain to take better care of himself, to eat, to get some
sleep; and when he did get himself hurt, and that was all too frequently in the
CMO’s opinion, he berated him for carelessness, or for unnecessary
bravado. My God, the man was fully
grown! He had managed to survive long
enough to become one of the youngest submarine captains on record, and had
successfully completed who knew how many ONI missions on his own, without a
supercilious physician hovering over him and acting like a mother hen.
Until this last
mission.
It was Jamieson’s own
actions that had brought the captain to this point of near death. He could no longer divorce himself from the
responsibility, no matter what reassurances Nelson had offered, no matter what
absolution Crane himself had given him at the time. The captain had been hurt because of
Jamieson’s well-meant meddling, his interference in something he was completely
unprepared to deal with at a time when he should have only been following orders
and keeping his opinions to himself, just as Crane had requested. The younger man had proven himself once
again, demonstrating the qualities the ONI valued so highly by managing to lead
them through unfriendly territory to safety, and in order to complete the
mission, even concealing the severity of his wound from the man who had been
trained to see the signs when no one else did.
Will Jamieson hunched
forward, elbows on his knees, his head bowed and cupped in his suddenly
trembling hands.
Crane had made it
obvious from the first that he did not want to take the doctor along on this
mission despite the strongly worded communiqué from the Joint Chiefs of Staff
he had received at the outset. Jamieson
was untrained, and, although Crane had phrased it as kindly as possible, the
doctor was not in adequate physical condition to undertake the kind of mission
Crane’s experience told him it would be, and his concern for Jamieson’s safety
was nearly palpable. But the Commander’s
record of success in ONI missions and the fact that Seaview’s location put him physically the nearest to the objective,
a defecting senior Chinese naval officer, had also put him at the top of the
list as far as the Joint Chiefs were concerned.
That the Seaview’s CMO was a
physician renowned in his field in many different areas from emergency medicine
to advanced oncology had sealed both their fates.
Until a few months ago
Captain Giang Kwan-Yin had commanded one of
Strapped into a tandem
parachute harness, Dr. William Jamieson had accompanied Crane, a man he
considered trouble-prone, if not an outright risk-taker, out of the belly hatch
of FS1 to plummet 10,000 feet through the darkness above the jungles of
It was while Crane
scouted out the area surrounding the hut for anyone following the defector that
Jamieson had first defied his admonitions to maintain a low profile. His examination of Giang was hampered by a
lack of light and almost without a thought he had turned up the wick on the
kerosene lantern. The Commander had
appeared almost instantly, it had seemed to him then, lunging through the
gaping doorway into the yellow circle of light just as gunfire erupted from the
jungle surrounding the hut. Jamieson
remembered Crane stumbling as he reached the table and extinguished the
lantern, growling out orders even as the bullets whistled past their heads. Had that been the moment Crane was hit by the
bullet?
Jamieson shook his head
sorrowfully. He had been too frightened
to notice, he admitted.
Once more Crane had left
them alone in the hut and this time the doctor had followed his orders to
remain on the floor in the darkness while the gunfire had dwindled and
ceased. His watch had told him that the
Skipper was gone less than twenty minutes, and when he returned they had
departed quickly to Crane’s muttered assurances that opposition had been
neutralized. Jamieson had attempted to
apologize then but, completely focused on the mission at hand, the younger man
had simply told him that no harm had been done and that they would discuss it
later. Eagerly, foolishly, Will had
accepted his words as the comfort Crane surely intended.
In retrospect Jamieson
was not at all proud of his behavior on the mission. Lee had virtually carried Giang who was,
fortunately, not a large man, the seven miles from the hut to bluff overlooking
the cove where FS1 was submerged, waiting for them. Older and admittedly not in the fighting trim
that Lee maintained, it had proven all Jamieson could do to just keep up with
him, just as Crane had feared. Their
passage had taken longer than they had anticipated, with Crane’s own progress
slowed by the defector’s weight and the constant need for evasion of search
parties looking for their defecting officer.
But Jamieson had not realized that at the time. In fact, the doctor could still hear his own
voice nagging at Seaview’s captain to
stop, to rest, or at least to allow him to check on Giang’s condition. That plea was the only one Crane ever
responded to, for the welfare of the man who had given himself into the
Americans’ safekeeping was of paramount importance to him.
Crane’s only comments in
response to Jamieson’s appeals had been words of caution, urging him to
silence, warning him repeatedly that they were likely under surveillance, and
could be located at any time. But to
Jamieson the jungle had been silent, empty of danger and threat and he had not
appreciated Lee’s skills or experience.
Not then.
Will knew he was not a
man accustomed to following orders. He
was a ship’s doctor and his position on Seaview
was unique in that it was seldom necessary for him to respond to the CO’s
commands to the crew. His station was in
A soft moan returned his
gaze to Seaview’s restless
captain. Crane’s dark hair had curled
with perspiration. His face was still
pale, bloodless, and his mouth was drawn in a bitter line of agony. Even sedated the pain had penetrated the
higher levels of his mind and broken his stubborn silence.
Silence.
Jamieson shivered
violently. It had been silent atop the
knoll above the beach too. He could
still remember how exhausted he had been, his leg muscles trembling from the
unaccustomed effort as he had stumbled to a halt among the scraggly
bushes. For a moment, as Crane eased the
Chinese officer from his shoulders to the ground, Will had merely stood frozen
in place. He had asked the Skipper
something, he couldn’t remember what it was now but probably something
concerning Giang’s condition, but Crane had hissed at him, demanding his
silence, ordering him down beside him.
But he was slow to respond. He
had caught sight of the zodiac approaching the shore and once more he merely
questioned him, suggesting that they move on to the beach.
There had been a
clicking sound, something vaguely familiar but unidentifiable to his
non-military mind, then Crane was lunging upward from his spot on the ground,
bowling him over and into the bushes as thunderous reports echoed through the
darkness. They rolled to the ground,
Crane’s arms holding him in place for a long moment, then the Captain had
struggled to his knees, his sidearm appearing in his hand though Jamieson had
not seen him reach for it.
The doctor hated weapons
of any kind. Perhaps it was the
consideration of his profession, his calling that spawned the aversion. Perhaps it was because the young man with him
had suffered so many times from wounds from such weapons. But at that moment, as the staccato clatter
of automatic weapons’ fire shattered the stillness of the Asian night, Jamieson
was more than happy to see the gun in Crane’s hand begin to belch out answering
fire.
Somehow they had made it
to the beach. The men in the shore
party, Kowalski, Donnegan, and Wheeler, had put up covering fire and the doctor
and the captain, supporting Giang between them, had made it to the zodiac and
away safely.
Or so he had thought at
the time.
Commander Morton was
waiting anxiously in the pilot chair, FS1’s engines humming in readiness, his
blue gaze following the trio as they climbed down the ladder from the top
hatch, abandoning the unmarked zodiac to the tides. Kowalski stood aside for Crane to drop into
the co-pilot’s seat but the Captain had merely waved him off as he sagged to
the floor of the Flying Sub, pleading exhaustion and issuing a request to be
left alone. Jamieson had been too
engrossed in caring for his official patient to notice the concerned glances
exchanged between the four men who had come for them. Nor had he given Crane’s quietness a single
thought as Morton sent the Flying Sub away through the depths then flung her
into the air to puddle jump to the coordinates where they were to transfer
Giang to the USNS Mercy off the Indonesian
The Flying Sub had
landed on the surface of the ocean, rocking gently as the corpsmen from the
Mercy evacuated Giang through the top hatch, which Donnegan scrambled swiftly
to secure as they departed. Relieved of
his own responsibilities Jamieson had stood staring woodenly through the view
screen at the huge white ship with its vivid red crosses on bow, side and
stern. The Flying Sub launched
precipitously into the air and Jamieson had staggered to keep his feet,
grabbing Donnegan’s arm to steady himself, and he had sworn vehemently, not
caring who heard. He was weary beyond
imagining, frustrated, even irritated, and felt pushed beyond his limits. In the past sixteen hours he had done things
he had never expected to do. He had
parachuted into territory that would be considered enemy-held by any sane
person, he had treated a dying man with little more than first aid supplies and
he had blundered for miles through a dark, unforgiving jungle with an equally
unforgiving young ONI agent. And to be
almost knocked from his feet by a Sailor overly eager to return to his own boat
was nearly more than his nerves could tolerate.
He whirled, his fierce
glare seeking out the Exec.
At some point in the
flight Morton had turned the controls over to Kowalski, Jamieson had realized
belatedly, and gone to kneel at his friend’s side. There had been virtually no conversation
between the two men and if he had considered his behavior at all, Jamieson had
just thought the XO was indulging his typical solicitousness for his exhausted
Captain’s welfare. But as Morton cleared
his throat and rose, Jamieson sighed slowly, his own exhaustion manifesting
itself in his sharp expression shared between captain and exec.
“I think you’d better
have a look at your other patient
now, Doctor,” Morton had told him, his voice flat but the accusation there,
nonetheless.
Jamieson could remember
dropping to the deck plating beside the captain, the raised-diamond pattern in
the steel cutting into his knees brutally.
He vaguely recalled pulling aside the leather jacket that Crane wore,
the soft leather slippery in his fingers, the coppery odor of blood now all too
obvious. The captain’s cotton shirt was
black and the blood did not show the way it would on one of the khaki uniform
blouses he usually wore, but the blood glistened wetly in the dawn light as the
Flying Sub headed eastward toward the Seaview. He remembered screaming at Kowalski to turn
the small craft about and return to the Mercy but Crane had grumbled out a
definite negative and Morton had repeated the command as he always did.
They were headed for the
Seaview. They were taking the Captain home.
At the time it did not
occur to Jamieson that Morton believed his friend’s death was inevitable. The fact that the exec had not requested, no,
had not demanded help for the wounded captain the moment he suspected injury
should have made it obvious to the CMO but Jamieson was too tired, too
distracted to make the connection. He
berated himself for his failure. If Crane
considered both himself and Giang as his responsibility, Jamieson knew he should
have remembered the Captain’s propensity for damage and been more aware of the
younger man’s condition.
Actually, he realized
now that it may have been Morton’s reluctance to move him that had saved
Crane’s life, for at the moment Jamieson had laid him out on the deck the blood
had gushed from the double wound, saturating the captain’s clothing and pooling
beneath him on the plating. Somehow he
had managed to put aside his regret and succeeded in curbing the blood flow
long enough for them to reach the Seaview
and get the Skipper aboard. Kowalski
must have notified Nelson, he realized now, for his corpsmen were waiting to
carry the unconscious captain to
That had been nine hours
ago.
He had slept fitfully
despite the certainty that, once again, the captain would survive. He was equally confident that Crane would not
be left unattended for a single second, knowing that his senior corpsman was
conscientious and reliable and nearly as experienced at dealing with a wounded
Lee Crane as himself.
Jamie had awakened to
find the
The chair, when Jamieson
had settled into it, was still warm from the last occupant. Morton had left only moments before, Frank
told him, bound for his watch in the control room, and the corpsman was sure
that Nelson would be there soon. As soon
as Frank had filled him in on Crane’s stats, the CMO had dismissed the diligent
corpsman and assumed the watch himself.
That had been nearly
thirty minutes ago. Thirty minutes of
silence and self-castigation over his own inadequacies on that ill-fated mission. Lee had taken a bullet meant for him he was
certain, though there was no way of proving just which one of the pieces of
flying lead had actually struck the captain and at which location. There had blood on Jamieson’s own clothing,
as there would have been if Lee had been hit the moment before he crashed into
him and bore him to the ground on the hilltop.
But there had been blood on Morton’s uniform, as well, just from
assisting in easing his friend down onto the floor of FS1. And he remembered the uncharacteristic
stumble as the captain had returned to the hut; but that would mean that Crane
had carried Giang all that way with a hole clear through him. Jamieson shook his head, knowing it should
have been impossible but, knowing too, that it was something Lee had probably
done more than once in the past.
The doctor lurched to
his feet, nearly upsetting the chair in his haste. He stood above the silent man on the bed and
glowered his frustration and his fear and his own very real guilt.
“Damn you, Lee
Crane! Damn you!” he swore softly, his
anger not really directed at the unconscious man, but at the situations into
which Crane insisted upon placing himself.
Jamieson wheeled then
and strode into his small office area where he picked up a clipboard and
studied the notations on the sheet of paper fastened there. He didn’t need to look at the man’s records
to know, intimately, the location of every scar, of every wound on the young
man’s body. And there was the damage
that left no outward scars, the broken bones, the concussions, the internal
injuries incurred over the years. Lee
had come too close to this one being the very last, and it frightened him. As a doctor Jamieson had lost patients
before, to be sure, but he had discovered that he was no different from the
crewmen aboard this submarine, or the officers, for that matter. He valued this young man. Valued him highly. And he would do everything in his power to
keep him from dying.
“Jamie?”
He whirled guiltily,
leaping back toward the bed where Crane lay.
He reached up and snapped on the light above the bunk and automatically
placed the buds of the stethoscope in his ears, pressing the disk against the
captain’s chest where it wasn’t swathed in bandages. Crane’s heart rate was elevated and there
were lines of pain around his eyes and mouth but the dark eyes were clear and
lucid as he met Jamieson’s gaze.
“I’ll get you something
for the pain, Captain.”
“Not yet.... It’ll put me out again.”
For the first time in his
memory Jamieson found he was unwilling to argue with this particular
patient.
“Any word on Giang?”
Jamieson gulped back a
gasp of denial. “I haven’t heard
anything,” he answered truthfully, “but they would have notified us if Giang
had not survived the journey to the States, I’m sure.” He inhaled slowly, needing to say the words
that plagued him but finding them bitter in his mouth. “I’m sorry, Lee.”
Crane frowned,
apparently confused.
“You wouldn’t have
gotten shot if I had done what you told me to do.”
“You can’t know that,
Jamie. They should never have insisted
you go with me.” Lee’s voice was faint
but no less fervent for its weakness.
“I put you in danger...
you and Giang both.”
“And then you saved both
our lives. I knew what I was getting
into. You didn’t have a clue.” Crane’s voice caught in his throat, but
whether from emotion or pain Jamieson couldn’t guess. “Any time I go out for the ONI I know my own
life is secondary to the success of the mission. I came to grips with that a long time
ago. What....” He inhaled slowly, deeply, his breath
catching again as it was obvious, this time, that the pain of his wound knifed
through him. “What I can’t accept is
someone... like you... not a trained agent... dying on a mission I’m in charge
of. I... I couldn’t live with... that.”
Lee’s eyes closed
briefly and the pain in the golden-brown depths when he opened them again was
more than Jamieson could tolerate. He
hurried to the drug locker and filled a hypodermic needle, then returned to the
Captain’s side.
“Don’t argue with me,
Lee,” Jamieson ordered as Crane lifted his hand in protest. “I’m not going to let you suffer just because
you’re too damned stubborn to know what’s good for you. In this
A slow smile softened
the captain’s drawn lips. “So... we have
an understanding... of sorts?”
“Of sorts,” Jamieson
admitted reluctantly, realizing what he had acknowledged to the captain. “We’ll just have to see how long it
lasts. All right?”
The smile widened and
was answered by the doctor’s own.
“So, your patient’s
finally awake?”
Nelson’s powerful
personality announced his presence as definitively as his voice and Lee shifted
his attention beyond the doctor toward the
“Not for long, I’m
afraid, Admiral,” the captain admitted for himself.
“He already trying to
convince you to let him out of here, Will?”
“Not me, Adm’ril,” Crane
put in, his words already beginning to slur from the drug. “I’m jus’ fine right where I am.”
Nelson forced an honest
smile as he settled easily into the chair he had been responsible for placing
at Crane’s bedside hours before. Those
were words he had not believed he would ever hear the younger man speak. He studied his captain’s haggard features
critically, knowing that this time Jamieson had truly pulled off a
miracle.
“You’re going to have
some explaining to do to a certain fair-haired exec, you know. He was convinced you were dying, and now he’s
feeling pretty bad because he didn’t try to help you himself.”
The weak, fond smile
returned but it was becoming more difficult for him to control even the muscles
of his mouth, Jamieson realized. “He
did... more than he knows....” A ragged,
pained sigh racked the slender body on the bunk. “I’ll think of something....”
“You could turn down a
few of these ONI missions for a starter.
I’m sure we’d all be a lot happier if that was a possibility.”
“Doubt... I’m gonna...
be in any shape for a... while....” he conceded, his dark gaze flicking briefly
toward the doctor as the physician nodded wisely.
“And if the Admiral,
here, doesn’t let you get some rest....” Jamieson said with more gentleness
than such a warning usually contained.
With equally uncommon
acquiescence Nelson merely grinned. “I
can see you’re in good hands, son, but... I’ll be back later,” he
promised. “Right now I’m going to go
relieve Commander Morton’s mind a bit.
I’m sure the control room crew will be delighted to have his temper
eased some too.”
Lee chuckled softly but
his words were barely audible. “I’d
appreciate that, Sir.”
Nelson pushed himself to
his feet and returned slowly to the door.
Jamieson glanced back over his shoulder, reclaiming his place in the
chair beside Lee’s bed, and nodded his own reassurances to the Admiral. As Nelson stepped out into the corridor
Jamieson could hear his quiet voice speaking encouragement to the crewmen on
station there. He would do exactly as he
promised, Jamieson knew, the brisk sound of leather soles on the decking
diminishing as he started toward the control room with news Jamieson was
certain would be well received.
Jamieson dimmed the
light over the bunk once more and yet he could tell that Crane’s eyes were
closed, his dark lashes motionless against his pale skin. His breathing was deep and steady, the
sedative relaxing the pain-tension in his muscles. Jamieson took the Captain’s wrist in his
fingers to check his pulse, and afterwards he was reluctant to move, even long
after he was satisfied. He sat quietly
for a very long while, reassured by the steady throb of life.
fini
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