unrealistically optimistic about the war's speedy close and the country's chances for reunification (something one of the O'Hare doctors would later point out to be one of the classic symptoms of Seventh Column Psychosis) and spent most of his time pointing out the personal stats on the various medical personnel. As the DAT team passed one of the busy surgeries, the guide quietly informed them that the anesthesiologist was married with two children in Harvard and one serving on the front lines in New Jersey. "He's pretty scattered some of the time, but we're lucky to have him!" When they passed a large area that was cordoned off with velvet ropes, the guide whispered, "This is the ward where we treat the wounded from the Advance South. You see that guy over there pulling out the bedpan? He is the biggest horndog. He's got three girlfriends in this wing alone, and his wife is seven months pregnant and works just right around the corner in pharmacy. The man is a kah-mah-kah-zee!"
Broussard noticed the lack of flowers and the tattered bedding in the Advance South ward and made a comment about it. The guide's response was quick and cheerily to the point. "We have to spend our dollars where it will do the most good!" And they moved on towards the VIP ward inside what used to be the Southwest Airlines terminal.
Chang had arranged for them to spend a few hours each week with a small group of badly wounded officers, some with medal commendations pending. The officers were all volunteers. Everyone on the medical staff in this ward was an active employee of the CIA and carried a top-level security clearance. Most were based out of the massive hospital facility in Diego Garcia, an American Naval base in the Indian Ocean. Chang had also managed to recruit a man of the cloth. His name was Dr. Everett Walsh. His resume listed him as senior pastor for an evangelical church in Frisco, Texas. He also had a weekly radio ministry that was aired on Christian stations throughout America, the Advance South states, and even western Canada. What it failed to mention was that the man also had hordes of fanatical fans right there in Chicago. As the team arrived at the huge Southwest building, they suddenly found themselves amidst a crush of off-duty doctors and nurses and assistants and janitors and news reporters and paparazzi, each angling for a glimpse of Pastor Walsh, who was due to arrive in thirty minutes. Bautista gawked at the larger-than-life posters of the man hung from the walls, crowding out the ubiquitous flags and airline advertisements.
"Who is this dude?" Bautista asked in sincere wonderment as the crowd became unruly.
A beefy nurse shoved Kuiper, and he shoved her right back. "Someone famous."
Lieutenant Brady pushed a telephoto lens out of his face. "If they knew who was inside the crates, you'd be famous, too."
Within minutes they had boarded two service elevators to the top floor, where they were whisked into a heavily guarded ward. The medical staff behaved as they might have in a civilian hospital during peace time. Everyone wore clean uniforms and polite smiles. Gone were the insistent flowers and palliative Musak. The energy level was also far less intense. It actually seemed like a place of healing. But that hope was soon dispelled once they were finally brought into the inner sanctum where the officers were receiving care. Not one man in the group was ambulatory. Rather, each lay in bed surrounded by beeping monitors and IV poles. Four out of the group had their beds adjusted to a semi-upright position and were either staring at the computer screens attached to their bedrails or watching television. The rest appeared comatose. Flags were attached to each bedpost. The team was surprised to see that half of them were the blue and white of the Advance South.
A burly man in the bed next to the room's only window looked up from his computer and welcomed them with a hearty "Hello!"
Powell stepped forward and extended his hand. "Eric Powell, sir. It's an honor to meet you."
The big man's eyes grew wide with amusement. "It is? Well, how about that? The name is Ivy Hughes." He extended his own hand, which dwarfed Powell's by a factor of two. "Put 'er there, partner!" The two shook hands.
Two nurses stepped in and began to rouse the men who were still asleep.
Two other officers in side-by-side beds also exchanged greetings with the team.
Bautista was staring at them in open wonder. He pointed to the man on his left. "You're on our side."
Then he pointed to the man on his right who had an AS flag attached to his bed. "And you're on the Advance South's side. Excuse me, but I'm confused."
The Advance South soldier was missing one arm and both legs below the kneecaps. He said, "We are United States' citizens first, opponents last. If we can play some role in getting this nation back on its feet again—no matter how small—then we're all willing to do it."
Ivy Hughes gave a loud retort. "Speak for yourself, Jack! I told Washington I'd do it for wild liquor and free women!"
"And how's that deal coming along?" Jack shot back.
"I get all the non-alcoholic beer I want. Now... " His large blue eyes rolled around to the two nurses who were pointedly ignoring him. "As far as the free women. Well, it don't cost nothing to look. So—" He returned to his computer. "I guess they're holding up their end of the bargain."
There was quite a bit of laughter around the room.
Chang solemnly bowed his head. "We thank you for your patriotism, General Hughes. And we thank you for your assistance with the DAT program." He looked back to their guide. "If it's okay, we'd like to get started."
The guide blinked once. "I don't see why not. Pastor Walsh should be here any minute, so you can go ahead and start setting things up." He flipped his watch hand up. "I've got to make a quick call. Be right back." He dashed out of the room.
Walters, Bautista, and Chang rolled the five pet crates into the center of the room and then slowly unlocked their front entrances. The AIs cautiously stepped out into the hospital room and promptly took cover between Chang and Walters, who were the closest. The patient named Jack broke out into a large grin. "Well, I didn't expect to see any dogs today! Are they the therapy animals?"
The AIs cowered some more.
"What's the matter, boy?" Jack asked. "You scared of all these big old men?"
Chang got down on one knee and put an arm around David, who seemed the most spooked. "This is all new for them. They'll settle down after a while."
General Ivy Hughes had once again abandoned his computer and was now watching the team with great interest. "Hey, boy. His name is David? Come here, David." But David and the rest stayed put. Hughes did not show offense. "I had a dog like that once. We called him Duke, after Marmaduke. You know, from the comics?"
David suddenly stopped hiding and walked straight towards the general's bed, his comm screen shining boldly. "I am not a dog."
Hughes was able to fire off an indulgent smile before his brain began to corroborate what his eyes had just told him. His breathing rate rapidly increased, and the man's entire body began to tremble. Two of his monitors began to sound the alarm. "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle. You aren't a dog, are you?"
Chang caught up with David and placed a calming hand on his neck. "It's okay, sir. He's one of us."
"Us?" Hughes asked with wild eyes. "Which 'us'?"
The nurses and the rest of the conscious bedridden men zeroed in on the five creatures.
"Both of us," Chang answered.
One of the nurses crossed herself and then slumped to the floor in a dead faint. Kuiper and Bautista ran to her aid.
The hospital guide burst back into the room. "OH, MY GOD! PASTOR WALSH IS HERE!"
The other nurse swooned.
The ambient noise levels shot up fifty fold as a tall, thin man with thick gray hair and Buddy Holly glasses strode in surrounded by a mini-mob. The air went ice blue with camera flashes. Brady jumped up and began to yell at the photographers. "GET OUT OF HERE! THIS IS A MILITARY HOSPITAL AND YOU ARE TRESSPASSING!"
He was about to be ignored when the pastor turned around and raised his arms high over the crowd. "Please. Please. Let me complete my work with these brave soldiers, and then I'll give you some time later to take yo
ur pictures."
The effect was stunning and instantaneous. The same reporters and photographers who had been foaming at the mouth ten seconds earlier to obtain a print-worthy comment from him or a money-shot photograph of him were now as quiet and docile as drugged church mice. "Please, folks. Thank you. Thank you." The media hounds receded into the outer hall like phantoms. Pastor Walsh softly closed the door behind them.
"Now," he said, turning to the DAT scientists and engineers and the distinguished soldiers and the unconscious nurses and the mechanical dogs. "If there aren't any objections, I'd like to say a prayer and invite the Almighty to be with us today."
He looked around the room of strangers. No one objected.
"All right then. First we'll pray, and then we'll get to work."
And that's how it went for the next five days. Crazy mob scenes. Prayers. And then Pastor Walsh working without interruption: consoling the grief stricken, calming the angry, witnessing to the unbelieving, testifying for his God, even talking to the AIs about the Bible and their possible place in it. By the end of the sixth day, almost everyone on the team was convinced that Pastor Walsh was either a bona fide man of God or the most accomplished charlatan in the storied history of religious quackery.
By the end of that sixth day, Pastor Walsh had been weighing heavily on Broussard's mind for almost eight hours, but he did not have