Читать книгу The Crucible - Joaquin De Torres - Страница 4

It pierced the ship’s iron skin without resistance. Punching through the metal bulkheads and ripping apart the labyrinths of pipes and walls of electronic equipment it hurled in, entering unchallenged the inner sanctum of a fortress designed to stop it. Seconds later...it exploded. The wall of fire and wreckage blew through the ship, incinerating everything in its path. It then entered a corridor where a young woman was standing. She turned around to face the molten flood. She neither panicked nor screamed; she simply closed her eyes as the inferno engulfed her.

“BECCAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” Kristina Torres bolted upright in her bed. “BECCA!” she repeated; confused, terrified and short of breath. Nearly hyperventilating, she swept the room with squinting eyes looking for survivors. She saw nothing. She closed her eyes and took deep controlled breaths, expecting to hear the moans of the wounded and dying. There was nothing; nothing at all. There were no bodies; no black-charred limbs; no fire or smoke. She was in her bed, in her room, in her house.

It had happened again.

She pulled the moist sheets off her naked body which glistened in sweat. Holding her face with her hands, she massaged her eyes, then reached for her cell phone to check the time: 5:20 P.M. Her nap had run too long and too deep, allowing the visions of her past–-her hell--to return as they had done many times before. The haunting of her soul never seemed to end. The imagery of that night--the sight, the sounds, and more ghastly, the smell of that night-—would never dissipate.

Shake it off! Move on, Kristina! The usual self-coaching voice was now a thoughtless habit. But that other voice, the voice of reason, would not back down either. Face your fear! Stop running from it! It never did, implanting in her the foreboding thought that one day, whether she was prepared or not, that demon would come again.

She entered her bathroom and stepped into the shower. The soothing, warm water danced on her skin, massaging away her tension. She considered calling her doctor. Dr. Yoshino had identified her Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as being so neurologically disruptive that it caused severe but temporary psychological trauma. The symptoms would appear during heavy moments of stress: recurring nightmares, hallucinations and paralysing depression. Unfortunately, they would forever become a dark part of her life, Yoshino had said, unless she engaged and beat down those fears. Despite not ever wanting to face them, she knew that her career might one day put her on a collision course with them. It seemed inevitable.

The flow of water soothed her, but the thick veils of steam only took her memory back. Kristina was only 18 when it all happened, 16 years had passed since then but the memories remained as fresh and as horrifying as if they had happened just a few hours ago.

“Use your experience to help others,” one therapist advised. “It will help you overcome the pain. Face your fears. Defeat it by sharing it with those who can’t cope with their own.”

What possible difference can you make to someone who will never know what you went through? And how does talking about it face my fear? Kristina asked the doctors these questions repeatedly, but other than their standard, clinical responses of “Give it time”; “It’ll get better”; “Take some time off”; she received no concrete answers. No, it can’t be done, she reasoned. This was her cross to bear. Like rape victims, combat medics, or Nazi prison camp survivors--no one could ever fathom the depth of such lifelong scars. No lecture, symposium or group-hug technique could ever bring them so close.

It was 16 years ago and she could still smell the sweet, nauseating stench of charred flesh and caramelized blood. Despite all the medical diversions, the visions would always come back when she was most vulnerable—in her sleep. In the apparent safety of her own bed, she would witness it all over again, from different angles, with different victims, in different places. Sleep was when it was most intense.

But awake and in pure daylight, she also had hallucinations. Sometimes she saw the bodies at the mall, in the park or in the mirror. Mangled, hideously burnt, and dismembered they would just stare at her with smoldering, black eye sockets. Some of them would try to move, walk to her or hold out their black, twisted hands, beseeching her to help them. Some would even speak, and it was always the same words that came from their tortured, grotesque mouths: “Come back! You must come back! You must do it again!”

“NO!” Her eyes flew open angrily. She turned off the water. “Not today.” She stepped out of the steam, wrapped herself in a towel and moved to the mirror. She grabbed her brush and untangled the cord of her blow dryer as the housephone began to ring in the living room downstairs. But like the other calls in recent days, she let the machine answer it. Brushing and blowing out her shoulder-length, black hair relaxed her.

Kristina let the towel drop to the floor, pausing to study her lean 34-year-old figure. She was physically stunning. With thick, shoulder-length black hair, large brown eyes under thick black brows; full, carved lips, and strong, noble nose and chin, she was often mistaken for a model. At six feet, her long neck, rigid posture and square shoulders made her statuesque and regal.

She began her routine of self-examination. She massaged and pressed her breasts with her fingers checking for lumps. Nothing. She turned to the side and inspected the profile of her breasts which lifted high and full upon her ribcage. Twisting slightly she eyed the long groove that channelled down her back to the dimples on her heart-shaped buttocks. The rest of her body was just as immaculate, from the race horse-like tautness of her legs to the sheer plunge of her stomach from her solar plexus to her pubic hair line. Satisfied that her twice-a-week aerobics classes and two-mile runs were doing their jobs, she pulled on an oversized sweatshirt and went downstairs.

Being an officer in the U.S. Navy, Commander Kristina Torres had to stay in shape as a model for her subordinates, an example of professional and physical excellence. But she was more than that.

Despite her rank, position and responsibilities she remained humble and genial to all. Witty, animated and adventuresome, she never let the child inside her grow up. It was that child that allowed her to work effectively with the countless directors, administrators, technicians, idiots and assholes in her field. Kristina was a magnet; drawing them in, dissipating their egos and arrogance, and bringing the best out of them. She carried herself with so much unpretentious humility that one would never know that she had three Master’s degrees, an IQ of 187 and was working on two PhDs simultaneously. She neither felt any sense of entitlement, nor flaunted her intellectual superiority over others. Vanity, ego and pride were beneath her. It would be her work, above all things, that defined her. Advanced mathematics, physics and software engineering came as easily to her as symphonies did to Mozart. Wearing a lab coat surrounded by whiteboards covered with logarithmic equations was her comfort zone. And as much as the demons would terrify her in the solitude of her own home, her work center was the place they dared not enter. Her work was her invincibility, her sanctuary and the cornerstone of her fame.

She entered her den which was a smaller version of one of her work centers. Basically, a working office with wall-to-wall books, plants, a drafting tables, and stacks of written notes. On one wall hung a huge white board with various mathematical calculations written on it. In the center of the room was a sectional glass-top desk.

“Activate.” With her single verbal command, all three laptops and the large flat screens connected to them powered up.

The left screen displayed the Global Weather Channel where it began cycling through weather systems across the world, finally settling on Kristina’s preselected location of the Pacific Ocean. The right screen displayed a split screen with two documents on either side ready for editing: her two PhD theses, one on Atmospheric Effects on Shipboard Weapons Systems for the Naval War College; and the other on Cryogenic Anti-Conflagration Theory for MIT. The center screen displayed a screensaver photo of a naval ship firing missiles and engulfed in white plumes of smoke. At the bottom of the photo which filled the screen was the title: U.S.S. Gettysburg – Naval Testbed, WEPS-ONE. The e-mail icon pulsed then was followed by a female voice.

“You have mail, Kristina.”

“List mail, please.” The voice recognition program accessed her inbox list. She scanned it and located the line she was looking for.

“Open mail, Torres.” The massive screen split into two windows, one with an open white screen and another with a digital image of a gentleman in his early sixties, wearing a khaki naval officer’s uniform. A row of four silver stars gleamed off both shirt collars. She smiled at the image, then left the den and went into the kitchen. She pulled out a bottle of water and an apple from the fridge. Her forehead and torso were still perspiring from her hot shower, but the house’s hardwood floors felt cool under her bare feet. Moving through her dining room she picked up the stack of mail sitting on the table that she had dropped there the day before.

She thumbed through the large corporate envelopes just checking the senders. The names were all familiar: McDonnell Douglass Corporation, Lockheed Martin, Boeing, NASA. She knew what they wanted. Then there was the stack from the universities: Cambridge, Oxford, Berkeley, Harvard, Stanford, MIT--who wanted her to become dean or assistant dean of their research and engineering departments. These same companies were on her e-mail inbox list, as well. She laid the stack back down and made her way to the table stand where the phone and message machine sat. The number two pulsed in the LED window. She depressed the PLAY button and sat on the sofa. Stretching her long legs on the coffee table, she pointed her toes like a synchronized swimmer towards the massive TV. She sipped at the water bottle as the messages played. The first beep sounded.

“Hello, Miss Torres. This is Patricia Berry, executive vice president for North Star Global Technology, human resources department. How are you today?

“Our president Joe Bender can’t stop talking about the possibility of you working with us. Your résumé is phenomenal, and your reputation is, of course, renowned. We would like the pleasure of a meeting with you. Please call, text or e-mail me at your convenience so we can set this up. All my information is within the packet I sent you last week. Just ask for me, Patricia. Flight, hotel and rental car accommodations would be our pleasure, Ms. Torres. If you have any questions concerning the job, pay, anything at all, please feel free to call me. Thank you again. Good-bye.” She took a bite of the apple as the second beep sounded.

“Hello, Ms. Torres! This is Doug Russo of Lockheed Martin Corporation again. How are you, ma’am? I’m pleased to inform you that we would like to substantially increase the salary amount on our original offer letter to $2.7 million per year, and include a $300,000 sign-on bonus.” Kristina shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“We understand the competition for your work is extremely high, so in addition to the increased salary, our company is offering you a company car, and a $10,000 monthly personal expense account. We understand you’re not due to leave the Navy for another five months; however, we’d like to offer you a two-month salary advance on top of the signing bonus, even before your separation date. We are all excited about the possibility of working with you. Please call my cell or e-mail me at your convenience. Good-bye now.”

Three successive beeps indicated that no other messages followed. She got up and walked over to the plate glass window of the family room and pulled open the curtains. Her eyes moved calmly about the other courts of houses sitting on the Seven Pines property. Her house sat high on a cul-de-sac with five others, overlooking the flame-hued leaves of autumn that engulfed the sleepy community of Columbia, Maryland.

Two point seven million. That’s the highest offer so far; then why am I not happy?

She understood what her skills and accomplishments meant to the defense contracting world. She considered the $80,000 annual salary the Navy paid her as an O-5 and shook her head. The disparity in pay was staggering and laughable. She had to acknowledge that there were choices that had to be made about her life.

Face your fear! She thought of this, too. With a shortage of qualified ship drivers in the Navy, and the volatile political and military situation on the Korean Peninsula, she would be a welcomed sight to the other frontline commanders. Almost a third of the Pacific Fleet combatants were now equipped with weapons and electronic systems that she herself designed. Ship command was something she always wanted, but doing it during a wartime situation was as dreadful and horrific as her nightmares. All was well and good until there were shots fired. After her experience 16 years ago, this frightened her to paralysis. This was the fear she had to face. The two were joined, and there was no escaping it.

She considered the man frozen on her computer screen; a person who had done everything in his power to make choices for her throughout her career. Take the money, a voice inside her whispered. Stay safe; stay on land and live the dream. You earned it. But how could she take that job now? With four months left on her commission, there was no way the Navy would let her become a civilian with the stop-loss program in effect. Don’t worry, he’ll take care of that little obstacle, the voice reassured. He always took care of the obstacles.

She looked at the wall clock: 6:00 P.M. She found the TV remote and selected her channel in time to hear the familiar sweeping thunder of violins, synthesizers and trumpets that heralded in the show.

“From the East Coast to the world, you are watching Channel 4 WBAL, Baltimore’s most informative newscast, with award-winning anchorwoman Anita Chavez.” The exotic Hispanic woman in a red sweater dress and matching red lipstick raised her head to the camera.

“Good evening and welcome to Channel 4 Baltimore Evening News. I’m Anita Chavez.”

“Looking good, Anita!” Kristina mused. “Love the dress.”

“Despite over a year of international pressure and sanctions, including the highly controversial Iron Clad blockade, North Korea continues to hold its position that it will not shut down its nuclear production facilities despite its horrific death toll.

“The Iron Clad blockade is a no-food, no-medicine, no-help barrier which literally starves a nation into capitulation. Navy ships, with the help of South Korean and Japanese vessels, patrol Korean waters with orders to fire on any cargo ship heading to North Korean docks. So far more than 528,000 people have died during the seven-month-long blockade. This strategy has never been used before, and President Kevin O’Malley’s administration has come under harsh opposition from human rights opponents at home and abroad.”

“That bastard,” Kristina spat out of disgust. “It’s human cruelty.”

“North Korea warned that any attempt by the United States or any coalition country to destroy the nuclear facilities via air strike or covert operations would be met by its own nuclear strike. North Korean president Kang Chin-il made it clear in a chilling letter to the U.N. and the White House that his people were ready to die in a conventional, nuclear or thermobaric warfare exchange with any country hoping to disrupt his nation’s nuclear progress. The country has possessed nuclear bombs and missiles for five years, and has built a formidable weapons stockpile which includes a revamped naval shipboard delivery system. However, it is not this system that worries the U.S. and her allies, but North Korea’s new thermobaric weapons capability that was sold to them by the People’s Republic of China.”

Kristina pulled her feet under her legs feeling uneasy at this latest development.

“This situation has put more pressure on South Korea and Japan to increase their defenses. But by far the most pressure lies with the U.S. Pacific Fleet which is not only faced with a shortage of fighting ships and captains due to the ongoing wars in the Middle East, but also faces the possibility of a massive Chinese naval invasion of Taiwan rumoured within the next few months. We will have more on this story later after a short commercial break.”

Kristina turned off the TV and reclined back onto the couch pondering the situation in the Pacific. Pearl Harbor, Yokosuka, Guam, San Diego, Long Beach; and up north to Bangor, Everett and Bremerton, Washington—-all these ports, were already ghost towns. Almost every ship was sent to either patrol the waters around Taiwan, or beef up the Iron Clad blockade.

She returned to the den and the frozen image on the screen. She got up and strolled back into the den.

“Voice mail; full motion, go.” The image of the man began to move. Admiral Ramon Jose Maria Torres, Commander—In—Chief of Naval Forces, Pacific Fleet came to life before her.

“Hello, baby.” The sound of his voice instantly eased her tension. “I don’t have too much time today; my flight will be leaving Honolulu in about two hours. You already have my itinerary. I’ll be in D.C. for only four days. In that time I have a knockdown drag out with the CNO; a luncheon with some congressional bureaucrats, a dinner with the Naval Academy superintendent whose cheating on his wife; some golf with other political suck-ups and perhaps a secret rendezvous with a lovely secretary who’s crazy about me.” She giggled.

“I doubt we’ll be able to see each other this time since you’re spending extra time in the lab, but if you need me just call my cell.” He looked pensively down, then back to her with more seriousness. She leaned in closer to the screen with focused attention.

“Don’t make any moves with those civilian jobs until I’ve talked with the CNO. This is a very delicate situation and could mean the end between me and Antonio.” He looked down again sadly. “I want to do this right so that you can leave the Navy cleanly with no strings attached. They want to keep you in, baby, more than anyone else in the fleet. I’m going to have to break every rule, and risk these stars to prevent that.” He looked away. “Look, I know I've been making a lot of decisions for you, honey, some of them without your consent. But you must always remember that I've only tried to protect you, to take care of you. You're all I've got. Good-bye, honey.”

The image froze. The e-mail was completed. She gazed at the admiral for several moments. He was going forward with this, risking so much, and she appreciated every bit of his effort despite her desire to stop him. But it had gone too far already. She could see in his eyes that he wanted this for her, and need it for himself. What could she say now? Her father had protected her all life. Who was she to fight him on this? She would remain silent and let this happen. She would play it safe and take her chances with the nightmares.