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and knot. He thought he was going to vomit, but didn’t believe he could make it to the head.
    He managed one elbow, the canvas cot creaking under the shift in his weight. He was in a jail cell, the black matrix of bars now clearly visible in the low light. “At least no one has made a meal of you yet,” he quipped.
    The captain sensed rather than saw movement on the outside of his cell. For a moment he tried to blink his way to clearer eyesight, the effort only serving to make his brain throb even more.
    It came as a complete surprise to find his broken arm in a cast. Finding the cut on his head had received a series of staples added to his bewilderment. “Why fix me up if you’re just going to eat me,” he whispered to the empty room.
    The sound of approaching footfalls brought the return of dread to Norse’s thinking.
    Two human outlines appeared at the wall of bars, the lack of light making it difficult for the captain to make out the features of either person.
    “What’s your name, soldier?” asked a voice full of authority.
    “Captain Shane Norse, 1 st of the 3 rd Combat Team, 7 th Cav, United States Army,” he answered automatically.
    “Well, Captain Norse, my name is Colonel Jack Taylor, Commander of the 1 st Irregulars, Gulf Republic. How are you feeling, son?”
    “I’ve been better, Colonel. Am I a prisoner?”
    “Now that is an excellent question, Captain. The answer depends on your story and our capability to confirm it. Why did you enter my area of operation?”
    Norse started to answer, but was interrupted by a wave of nausea. Clutching his stomach, the captain groaned loudly and eyed the nearby toilet.
    “I’m sorry, Captain, but we don’t have many medications left. Our medical staff did the best they could on your injuries. All of our pain meds ran out months ago, so there’s little I can do to make you more comfortable.”
    Norse nodded his understanding, but was still too unsure of his gut to speak.
    “There’s also a chance you’ve been exposed to the virus,” Taylor continued. “The man who found you out by the border is a survivor, as were many of the medics that patched you up. We still don’t know when an individual is no longer contagious, so you might up and die on us before we have a chance to talk. I’ll be back later to see if you’re feeling up to a conversation… or are dead. Good luck, Captain.”
    And with that, Taylor was gone, the sound of his retreating steps echoing throughout the otherwise silent concrete rooms.
    A sudden need to lie back down consumed Shane’s thoughts, the combination of head and stomach aches quickly draining his strength. As he came to rest on the pillow, it suddenly occurred to the captain that the other person standing next to Taylor had never left.
    Just as his eyes were trying to focus beyond the bars, he heard the cell door rattle open. Norse thought he had to be dreaming, a vision of a dark haired girl entering his space. She was carrying a plastic tray with what appeared to be food and water.
    “You need to drink,” her gentle voice commanded. “Drink lots of water… all you can handle. You’ve lost a lot of blood and may have some internal bleeding. Water will help with your head as well.”
    “Who are you?” Shane asked.
    “I’m your caretaker and jailer,” she responded with a smile.
    “Jailer?”
    To answer his question, she turned slightly and patted the pistol holstered on her belt. “Don’t try anything clever,” she said. “I hate shooting people.”
    Something in the woman’s green eyes convinced Norse. I bet you do , he thought.

     
    The colonel knew he needed to sleep, his long night at the command rooftop depriving him of an entire night’s rest. He was still “revved-up,” however, the positive energy of an operation that had been a complete success still flowing through his body.
    He instructed the major to drop him off a mile from his quarters. “I need to walk off some of this stress,” he