Page 114 of Clive Cussler's Quantum Tempest
TheBaktunhad to be sunk, no matter the sacrifice—even if it meant starting World War III.
62
Isla de San Alejo
The Lesser Antilles
He had slept like the dead, dreamless and void.
He didn’t realize he’d been asleep until he became vaguely aware of consciousness, his mind still on the edge of oblivion. But the fact he was aware that he was aware woke him up a bit more, driving his reluctant mind toward the rippling surface of lucidity.
He didn’t want to make that journey, and kept his eyes tightly shut hoping he could fall back into the peaceful abyss of nothingness.
But such was not his fate. His chest ached as if struck by a sledgehammer, the dull pain shallowing his breaths and fueling the raging headache inside of his skull.
A nearby machine issued gentle puffing sounds, and a soft electronic beep tapped out a simple rhythm. He focused on the beep and noticed that, as he did so, it increased in tempo.
“I think he’s waking up.”
It was an unfamiliar voice speaking. A woman’s voice. In Spanish. But a strange Spanish. An accent. German? Italian?
Even these few thoughts hurt his head.
Where was he?
He opened his eyes with difficulty, his lids fluttering against the bright lights. His vision was blurred. He could hardly see through the gauzy film clouding his eyes.
“Yes, he is awake,” the woman’s voice said.
“It’s a miracle,” another voice said. Also a woman, though younger.
Nurses, he told himself. He lifted heavy hands and rubbed his eyes until his vision cleared. He took a closer look at the two voices. His heart sank.
Nuns.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in the mission hospital on Isla de San Alejo,” the older nun said. “We are the Sisters of Divine Mercy.” Like the other nun, she wore a nurse’s uniform. “You’re fortunate to be alive.”
The younger nun smiled beatifically. “God must have a special purpose for you.”
“How are you called?” the other nurse asked.
The man frowned for a moment, genuinely confused. He wasn’t sure. He’d had many names. What was the last one?
The old nun frowned. “Don’t you know your own name?”
The man looked down at his aching chest. Thick bandages covered the place where it hurt the most. IV and blood bag lines were taped to the backs of his hands. He touched the cannula under his nose as his eyes caught sight of the oxygen regulator puffing away by his bedside.
“You were shot,” the old nurse said, hoping to jar his memory.
“And you lost a lot of blood. A friend brought you here, just in time.”
“It’s a miracle we had your blood type here. Very rare.”
The man noticed the younger nun had a bandage on her forearm, exactly where a blood-draw needle would be placed.
“Gracias,” he whispered hoarsely. He was irreligious, but not an ingrate.
