LITMIR.BIZ

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behavior.

      John shouted to Cassandra, “Close your eyes and listen to the clicks.”

      Suddenly, John was lifted several feet as a large wave passed beneath. As the crest of the wave went by, the subsequent trough dropped John toward the coral heads below. John instinctively put his hands out to brace himself for impact on the outcrop of coral. Cassandra, who was swimming to his left, dropped harmlessly beyond the edge. John’s right hand caught the edge of coral head, which stabilized his position but shifted his body uncomfortably close to the coral. He shoved to move himself into deeper water, but as he pushed, a sharp stabbing pain shot through his hand and radiated up the arm. Reflexively, he jerked his hand back. As he did, a sea urchin with long black spines dislodged from a fissure in the coral.

      Embedded in his thenar eminence, the meaty muscle at the base of the thumb, was a broken black, urchin spine. A streak of blood appeared at the entry point of the spine and dissipated into the surrounding water. Cassandra was treading water next to him. She saw the grimace on his face.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “The wave trough dropped me down on the coral head. I got stuck by an urchin,” said John. He showed her his hand. One centimeter of the spine was sticking out from the skin.

      “Ouch, that must hurt! We’d better go in,” said Cassandra.

      “Wait, sometimes big waves come in sets. I don’t want to be over any coral heads if another passes.”

      Within seconds, they were lifted again by another large wave, this time even bigger than the first.

      “Where did these waves come from?” Cassandra questioned. “The cruise ships already left, and it’s too big for a wake anyway.” A moment later, a third wave lifted and dropped them down.

      John, while studying his punctured hand, said, “It’s probably from some underwater landslide, seismic shift. Who knows.”

      They treaded water for several minutes. Other big waves passed, but none comparable to the first three.

      Finally, Cassandra said, “It’s almost dark. You’re bleeding, and we’re 200 meters from shore. I’d rather chance bumping into coral versus being bumped by large things that swim in the night.”

      “Yeah, chumming the water with my blood is like ringing a dinner bell out here.”

      After swimming back to their hotel, a swarthy Caymanian with blue eyes wearing a hotel staff shirt ran up.

      “Are you people okay? Did you get caught in the big waves?”

      “Yeah,” said John, “we’re fine. The swells passed under us. Was anyone injured?” John surveyed the disarray of lounge chairs on the beach. The waves carried some all the way to the back entrance of the lobby.

      “No bad injuries,” said the attendant, “just scrapes and bumps. Most guests already left the beach for the evening.”

      “Well, let me know if I can help in any way,” said John. “I’m a physician.”

      Back in the hotel room, John managed to remove the spine with some difficulty. He sat down to watch the U.S. evening news as he wrapped a bandage around the injury.

      An attractive blonde-haired reporter appeared on the screen. She was doing a remote report from the steps of the Capitol.

      “Senator Bedford is the second senator from the state of Massachusetts to die from a heart attack this year. This brings the total to seven senate deaths this year. We have to go back to 1918 to find this many senators dying from natural causes in one year.”

      John mused aloud, “This could have the potential of being good, except they keep replacing them.”

      Ignoring John’s cynicism, Cassandra said, “Oh jeez, I’ve got to call my stepbrother, Chunky. I haven’t talked to him in three months. The last time we spoke, I told him things seemed to be getting serious. I want to let him know you popped the question and against my better judgment, I said yes.”

      John laughed, then asked, “You haven’t talked to him in three months?”

      “Yeah,” said Cassandra, “remember, I told you before, he heads up a research team who studies bottle nose dolphins. It’s hard to get a hold of him because he’s always on a boat or on some remote island. For all I know he could be floating off shore right now. You’d like him. I guess you’ll get to meet him at the wedding.”

      She smiled widely at John. Her attention switched to the phone as she connected. “Chunky, it’s me! Guess what!” She walked into the other room, chattering happily.

      John opened and closed his now bandaged hand and winced in pain.

      CHAPTER 2

      AIR WARS

      One week later, back at his medical practice in Orlando, John settled into his daily routine of treating the many self-inflicted diseases of his patients. He finished listening to the emphysemic lungs of Mr. Jenkins. After draping his stethoscope over his neck, he said, “Mr. Jenkins, you’re getting worse. I’ve been telling you for ten years to stop smoking. What can I do or say to help you quit?”

      “Doc,” said Mr. Jenkins, “since you put me on this here portable oxygen I kin walk clear cross the room without hardly gettin’ tired. I jus’ don’t figur the need to stop smokin’. I’ll be doin’ jus’ fine.” This was followed by ten seconds of gasping coughs.

      A knocking rattled the exam room door and a voice from the hall said, “Dr. Tobin is on the phone.”

      The request was the office signal to get him out of the exam room. John’s staff used it if a patient was taking too long or if there was an office problem. He cracked the door and peered out. Cathy, his receptionist, stood looking pale and scared.

      “Doc, you need to see this news report,” she said.

      He poked his head out the door farther, but as he did so, he noticed an eerie silence permeated the usually busy office. Missing were the typical sounds accompanying a hectic internal medicine practice. A chill ran down his spine.

      “Terrorist attack?” he asked with apprehension.

      “No . . . I don’t know. Just come.” She grabbed the white sleeve of his lab jacket and gave it a tug.

      He followed her into the reception room where his patients and staff had gathered. All eyes remained fixed on the flat screen monitor hanging above the reception window. The only sound came from a newsreader, whose tone seemed to be a mixture of agitation and excitement.

      “ . . . and we’ll be showing you that astonishing clip again from a rural area of Niquero, Cuba.”

      The screen filled with a jumpy B-roll clip, which looked like it was from a hand-held consumer video camera. Initially fuzzy, the camera refocused on a floating object. It hovered directly above weather-beaten wooden shacks built in a scattered pattern along a dirt road. The location appeared to be on the outskirts of what looked like a small village. As the camera continued to focus, the object appeared to be a large coal-black mass the size of a blimp.

      John said, “What the heck is—?”

      “Shush and just watch,” interrupted Cathy.

      John thought, if it’s a blimp, its shape is grossly distorted. It had a ridged crescent top, and one end of the body was more conical in shape. Unlike a free-floating blimp, this object had hundreds of black hanging ropes, the thickness of a man’s arm, in concentric rings attached to the base. John’s first impression was of a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon with a veil of dense ropes and absent handlers.

      “Again,” said the newsreader, “I must remind you, this clip is not appropriate for children.“

      John looked again at the shape. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t bring it to the front of his mind. As he was deep in thought,

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