"What the hell are you doing out of the hospital?" Pickering demanded.
"About the same thing you are, General," McCoy said.
"Making things a hell of a lot worse."
Dr. Selleres appeared a minute or two later, and immediately confirmed McCoy's diagnosis and immediate treatment.
"Somebody get General Pickering a glass of water," he ordered.
"The water here is undrinkable," Pickering said. "There should be some ginger ale."
"OK, ginger ale. Have you been nauseous?"
"No, but I have had a first-class display of diarrhea."
"The ginger ale may make you nauseous."
"I'll take my chances, thank you," Pickering said. "And aside from ginger ale, what can you do for me?"
"Well, the first thing we do is get you into an ambulance and into a hospital,"
"No."
"You have to go to the hospital, General. Period. No argument."
"Jesus Christ! Why can't you do what you have to do here?"
"Well, for one thing, Fleming, we don't have facilities to conduct an autopsy here, and unless you start behaving, that's the next medical procedure you'll need."
"Bullshit."
"No. No bullshit. The facts. How long have you been experiencing symptoms like these?"
"The diarrhea's new. And the goddamned weakness. But the hot and cold spells, a couple of days. Three maybe. Maybe four."
"And you've been treating yourself with aspirin and scotch, right?"
"I thought the scotch had given me the runs," Pickering said.
Hart appeared with a bottle of ginger ale and two glasses, one empty and one with ice.
"Here you are, Sir."
"That's liable to make you sick, Fleming," Dr. Selleres said.
"So you said," Pickering snapped, and then, "I don't have the goddamn strength to sit up." Hart went to him and held him in a sitting position. McCoy held the glass to his lips.
Sessions went into the sitting room and dialed a number from memory.
When Colonel Rickabee came on the line, he told him what was going on.
Then he went back into the bedroom.
"An ambulance is on the way," he said, "with a doctor and corpsmen. The General will be taken to Walter Reed Army Hospital, which has the best malaria treatment facilities in the area."
"You really think I need hospitalization, Emilio?" Pickering asked.
"Only if you want to live, Fleming," Dr. Selleres said.
"Hell!" Pickering said, and then shrugged. He looked at the people standing around his bed. "If I'm going back in the hospital, John, so are you. Can you arrange that, Sessions?"
"It's already been arranged, Sir. He's going in your ambulance."
"McCoy, will you telephone Mrs. Pickering and make sure she doesn't get hysterical when she hears about this?"
"Yes, Sir, if you want me to."
"I'll call her, Fleming," Dr. Selleres said. "If I don't, she'll call me." Pickering ignored him. He looked at Private George Hart.
"You've just had one hell of an introduction to a prospective boss, son.
I would certainly understand why you wouldn't want to work for me."
"Do I have a choice, Sir?"
"Yes, of course, you do."
"I think I'd like very much to work for you, Sir." Pickering didn't reply for a moment. Then he said, "Sessions, Moore told me that when you snatched him out of Parris Island you made him an overnight sergeant. And he didn't even have to wipe an officer's ass. Can you do as much for this young man?"
"Yes, Sir. If that is the General's desire, Private Hart will be a sergeant before noon."
"That is the General's desire," Pickering said. Then he looked at Dr. Emilio Selleres. "I hate to admit this, but you're right, you sonofabitch. I'm about to throw up."
"Roll over on your side, Fleming," Selleres said.
Outside, there was the wail of a siren.
"Do you suppose that's for me?" Pickering asked. "Or is that Roosevelt out for a morning drive?" And then he was shaken with chills and nausea.
Chapter Eight
[One]
THE PENTHOUSE THE ANDREW FOSTER HOTEL
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA