“Who was there?” asked Laura.
“Bobby and Kenny Canady and at least two other guys.”
“Anyone from RADCON?” I asked from the backseat.
“Paul was there,” she said. “But he’s okay.”
“Were they in the containment room?” asked Laura, still trying to get a handle on this.
Mary Lou hesitated. “They must have been, right?”
“Depends if they were working on the primary circuit or the secondary circuit,” Laura said, and I was impressed that she knew the difference, because I certainly didn’t.
“I don’t know,” said Mary Lou, quietly. “I’m sorry.”
We had arrived at the pier, where we could see a couple of Seabees using a forklift to load a burned-out Datsun with Armed Forces plates onto a flatbed truck. It was just a shell of a car, and I assumed that, at this point, the Chevelle didn’t look much better.
Beyond the flatbed truck was the captain’s gig, tied up to a piling. The gig’s coxswain stood on the pier smoking a cigarette, but when he saw the three of us approaching, he tossed the butt in the water and tipped his hat in Mary Lou’s direction.
Because the captain’s gig was a small cabin cruiser, it took half the time it normally did to get to Santo Stefano. The cabin was quiet, and we didn’t say a word the whole way. When we docked, Laura flew out of the boat and up theGilmore’s gangway, where she was stopped at the top by a seaman standing watch.
“The tender’s on lockdown,” he said. “No nonmilitary personnel are allowed aboard at this time.”
“The commodore has signed off on this,” said Mary Lou, only a few feet behind her.
The seaman looked nervously from Laura to Mary Lou. “Where are you headed?”
“The infirmary,” said Mary Lou. “To see Lieutenant Carpenter.”
“Go straight there. The second deck is closed.”
“Got it,” said Mary Lou, and led Laura and me to the upper deck, where the infirmary sat next to the dental department.
I’d never been inside the tender’s infirmary. It was a smallish room with stainless-steel cabinetry, a sink, and a couple of gurneys, one of which was sitting behind a curtain. In the ceiling were those giant lights you see in operating theaters, so I guess the idea was that—in a pinch—this room could become an OR.
“Bobby?” called Laura.
From behind the curtain, we heard him scream, “Don’t let her in here!” It shocked me because I had not once—in the two years we’d beenfriends—heard him raise his voice. But then he said, “She’s pregnant,” and I realized what it was about.
The ship’s doctor, a guy with the last name Wilson, was wearing a gown, a mask, and one of those big iron aprons, and when he stepped out from behind the curtain, he seemed surprised to see us until he realized we were with Mary Lou.
“This is Lieutenant Carpenter’s wife, Laura,” said Mary Lou. “We’re going to put her on the medevac with him and Petty Officer Canady. Assuming Lieutenant Carpenter is willing.”
Wilson nodded and turned to Laura. “Your husband’s displaying some mild symptoms of radiation syndrome. Nausea, dizziness, a little disorientation.”
“Shit,” whispered Laura.
“There’s good reason to believe he’ll make a full recovery—”
Mary Lou interrupted. “Tell her what you told the commodore.”
The doctor cleared his throat. “The symptoms do tend to get worse a couple of days post-exposure. Which is why we’re sending him to Naples.”
“Right now?” asked Laura.
Wilson looked at his watch. “Chopper should be here around oh two hundred.”
“Right,” said Laura, who was clearly starting to lose it. She sidestepped Wilson and started to move toward the curtain.
