Page 3 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
“I’m still working on finding a camp that will be less harsh than the one you are bound to be sent to.”
Jansen arched his brow. “I appreciate that.”
Mitomo smiled. “We’re not all monsters, you know.” He blew acloud of smoke. “I would like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
Jansen frowned. “You know, the Geneva Convention only requires me to give you my name, rank, and serial number.”
“Which you have kindly provided. We have also determined that you belong to the 314th Wing based out of Guam, and that your aircraft was namedMoonshiner, if I’m not mistaken.”
“My name is Carl Jansen, my rank is technical sergeant, my serial number is—”
Mitomo waved a hand. “No need for all of that. You don’t have to confirm or deny anything. All of that information was taken from the tail section of the plane you arrived in.” The doctor laughed and shook his head. “It’s a miracle, you know? How did you survive such a thing!”
The doctor’s infectious laughter caught Jansen off guard. He couldn’t help but smile himself.
“God himself must have set me down in those trees. Momma prays a lot.”
“I am very pleased that you didn’t die. You must have been in prime physical condition just to survive the mental stress of the ordeal.”
“We ate pretty good back on the farm. Dad always said, ‘Food is medicine.’ ”
“A wise man. Now, the questions I wanted to ask you were simply about your medical history, such as whether or not you ever had smallpox. That sort of thing.”
Jansen’s eyes narrowed.
Mitomo smiled again. “I’m not trying to pry out of you any military secrets about smallpox or the quality of American medical care. No offense, but I’m probably already better versed in such matters than you are.”
“Then why do you want my medical history?”
“I said that you are on the road to recovery, but you’re not quite out of the woods. I need all the information you can give me so that I can be sure I’m treating you properly. For example, are you allergic to sulfa drugs?”
“I don’t think so.”
Mitomo took his response as a good sign. He opened the file back up and made a notation. He asked several more questions about childhood diseases, previous injuries, and his military vaccination record. Fifteen minutes later, he shut the file again.
“So, overall, how do you feel at the moment?”
Jansen rubbed his scruffy chin. “I could use a shave.”
Mitomo stroked his well-groomed face. “I bet you could grow a fine beard.”
Jansen grinned. “My mother made me promise not to. No tattoos, either.”
“Ah, yes. Mothers.” Mitomo stabbed out his cigarette. “Perhaps I can arrange something. In the meantime, I have one other favor to ask.”
“Sure.”
“I’d like to run a series of tests. Hearing, eyes, breathing. I want to make sure that we’re not missing anything that might prove harmful or even fatal later on. I can’t promise you quality health care once you leave this place. Is that acceptable to you?”
Jansen shrugged. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
“And then I can get you that shave.”
?
Jansen sat in a small, enclosed glass booth with a headset perched over his ears. It almost felt like the tail gunner’s compartment.
“Can you hear me?” Dr. Mitomo asked on the other side of the glass. He sat at a small desk with a control station and spoke into a microphone.
