Gabe (In the Company of Snipers, #8)(95)

Dr. Jitar’s eyes flashed with anger. He pointed to Stevenson. “Acute radiation isn’t to be treated lightly. The only reason they aren’t able to speak now is because of the poisoning. I’m sure of it.”

Chief McDonald turned to Stevenson. “Not so. This guy’s been talking plenty. So has Bukowski. They’re just selective about who’s in the room when they do.”

“Are they only presenting with gastrointestinal distress, Dr. Jitar?” David interrupted the confrontation. “Are you seeing any neurological degradation, or is it too soon to tell?”

Dr. Jitar’s brows lifted as he turned his focus on David. “You are familiar with radiation poisoning?”

“I understand it enough to know that specific symptoms are associated with different doses. For instance, the burns on their hands indicate they’ve been in contact with a radioactive isotope without wearing proper protection. Is that correct?”

Dr. Jitar nodded. “Yes, they both display skin trauma indicative of recent severe exposure. Intestinal distress as well. I’m not seeing the neurological degradation you asked about yet. However, if they only came into contact with a reactor-level isotope, say caesium-137 or strontium 90, nerve damage wouldn’t present for days or even weeks.”

Mark watched David’s clever strategy as he very gently picked Dr. Jitar’s brain while Stevenson and Bukowski listened intently. David had a knack for storing vast amounts of useless trivia. For once, Mark was glad he did.

“You don’t think cobalt-60 or iridium-192 then?” David tapped his index finger to his chin.

“It is too soon to tell,” the doctor admitted. “It may not be a reactor type of isotope at all. It could be medical or commercial. I simply don’t know, but I had to initiate some kind of treatment. If these poor sick men could talk, I could treat them more effectively. It’s unfortunate. Their families need to be notified. Arrangements need to be made before it’s too late.”

Mark glanced from Bukowski back to Stevenson. By the time David got through with them, they were going to regret playing their doctor for a fool by pretending they couldn’t speak.

“They could still present with aplastic anemia?” David covered his lips as if trying to keep the conversation confidential. He blew out a long sigh. “That would be tragic.”

“Oh, yes. Without a doubt. It’s just a matter of time. Hematopoietic syndrome, the extreme drop in white blood cell counts, will eventually compromise every aspect of their recovery. I haven’t seen such a case since the Chernobyl reactor failure. I’m giving them vast quantities of fluids and antibiotics, but without knowing the source of their poisoning, it’s difficult to determine the best treatment.”

“You were at Chernobyl?” David’s brows lifted. “During or after?”

“Much later. I studied the long-term effects on the immediate population with the United Nations Task Force. Most unfortunate.” He shook his head. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Such an unnecessary waste of lives.”

David blew out a big sigh as he turned away from the patients, presenting his back to them while he lowered his voice. “What you’re telling me is this could turn from simple nausea, headaches, and diarrhea to seizures, lethargy, and death within a matter of hours? Is that right?”

Dr. Jitar shook his head sadly. “You know as well as I do that a dose as small as 6 rad will still cause cognitive impairment. Anything larger than 30 rad, and they’ll be dead in two days.”


“I’m afraid this is very bad, Mark,” David stage whispered across the room. “We’re too late. Radiation destroys soft tissue first. It’s already in their blood. Maybe their bones. Obviously their throats and vocal cords. Maybe we can locate their next of kin. That’s about all—”

“The hell I can’t talk,” Bukowski said hoarsely. “Catch that sonofabitch before he gets away. He never said nothing ’bout that crap being radioactive. Not even once!”

“Shut up,” Stevenson hissed from the other bed. “These guys are playing you and you’re falling for it. You’re an ass.”

“No, I’m not. You are. I ain’t gonna die for his stupid revolution. Not anymore.”

“I’m telling you for the last time. Stow it.”

Mark stepped over to Bukowski’s bedside, blocking his view of Stevenson. “Who did you handle the radiation for?”

“Fallon. That sonofabitch told us to move it down to the warehouse to where they’re—”

“Shut the hell up,” Stevenson ordered, leaning forward as far as his restraints would allow. “He’ll kill you if you say anything else.”

“In case you ain’t noticed, he’s already killed us,” Bukowski bellowed at his cohort in crime. “Did you hear what the doc said? Man, we’re gonna die and it’s gonna hurt when we do.”

“You’re playing right into their hands. For hell’s sake, why do you think they said all that stuff? They’re trying to scare you. They want you to talk,” Stevenson ground out, his voice edged with exasperation. “Shut up.”

“I don’t care and I ain’t gonna shut up, neither. I’m sick of laying here puking my guts up and filling a diaper. I don’t wanna die.” Bukowski’s rant descended into a desperate whine. “I need help, Doc. And you, guys. What do you want? I’ll tell you everything.”