118 DALE BROWN

A medical technician handed him two electrode paddles from the heart defibrillator. "He'll die if we don't revive him."

"And you'll kill him if you shock him with that. " Powell grabbed Patrick by his flight suit and hauled him up as far out of the ejection seat as he could. "Patrick!" he yelled. " Dammit, I said wake up!"

Suddenly McLanahan's eyes popped open. He grabbed 's shoulder in a crushing grip that made Powell wince. He gagged on the resuscitator tube in his throat and pulled it out, his chest heaving. Powell eased him back into his seat.

"Sinus rhythm," one of the paramedics reported. "Blood pressure high but strong. Heart rate, respiration okay."

"Are you'all right?"

"I . . . I think so."

Carmichael started to put the oxygen mask on his face again but Patrick pulled it away, choosing instead to take occasional deep breaths from it.

"It was so weird," McLanahan said, trying hard to control his breathing. He seemed to be reviewing, reliving, the scene in his mind. "I was watching the intercept and the kill like a spectator. ANTARES was doing it all. It was like I wasn't there.

But I felt the pain building and building, and ANTARES getting stronger and stronger, along with the pain. But then I couldn't do anything. I knew I still had to fly the aircraft on ground-position freeze but I couldn't give any commands. I felt like . . .

like a million hornets were buzzing all around me.'I knew those hornets carried information, important data I need to know, and I knew something was wrong. But with the pain, I couldn't do a thing . . . Suddenly everything was dark and empty. I didn't have a body, just a brain. I was searching for a way out of a room but didn't know how I was going to make it even if I found an exit. That's when I heard 's voice. The more I heard, the more . . . alive I felt. I followed his voice . . .

I . . ." His voice began to fade, and he appeared to be drifting off to sleep.

"Get him out of here," Carmichael ordered.

He woke up later to find Wendy Tork asleep in a chair beside his bed, a magazine across her lap. "Wendy?"

She came upright. "Patrick? You're awake! How do you feel?"

"Tired. Thirsty. " She poured him a glass of water from a plastic pitcher, then rang for the nurse. "I feel like I've just paddled a kayak across the Pacific. " He found he had the strength to sit up and take the cup in his hands. "What time is it? "

"Nine P."

"I've been asleep for twelve hours?"

"Patrick, it's nine P. on Saturday. You've been asleep for forty-eight hours. "

The water glass began to tremble in his hands, and he quickly set it on the bedside table. "Was I in a coma?"

"No-well, technically, yes," Wendy said, moving close to him and taking his hands in hers. "They called it extreme exhaustion and depletion. You lost seven pounds while you were in that simulator. You could have hurt yourself even without the strain that . . . that thing put on you. Are you sure you're okay?"

He sat up and took a few sips of water. Nothing was said until he asked, "How long have you been here?"

"I never left. I . . . I wanted to talk some more about the other night. I know how it is for you-"

"Works both ways, kid." He let out a tired sigh and his head dropped back to the pillow. He managed a short laugh. "I think I know why Doctor Jekyll drank his own potions. You want something to be so successful that you'll try anything, even making yourself into your own guinea pig. I never should have strapped myself into that simulator. I wasn't ready for it."

"It must have been terrible."

"It was . . . different," he said uneasily. "I have to give guys like James and Powell all the credit in the world for flying the real thing, never mind the simulator. It's an awesome contrap-tion if you can keep yourself from going crazy."

"Talk about going crazy," a voice said behind them. They turned to see General Elliott and Hal Briggs enter the hospital room. Hal went over to Patrick and clasped hands with him.

"You had the'whole place going crazy, brother."

McLanahan thought that Elliott looked drawn, tired, as if he hadn't slept in days. His blue blouse was sweat-stained and rumpled, and he seemed to favor his artificial leg more than usual.

"How do you feel, Patrick?"

"Fine, sir." A damn lie.