Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

Chapter Seven

Roger Dobbs thought that if he had to carry on for much longer, his lungs would explode, as he continued to pedal the static bicycle. He was hooked up to a bank of monitors, all flickering and beeping or scratching out graphs or squiggles on lined computer paper, an oxygen breathing tube fixed between his teeth and secured on either side of his mouth with tape, a pair of clips fixed across the bridge of his nose, closing his nostrils so that he was forced to inhale and exhale through his mouth.

Dr Sara Sykes was standing close beside him, splitting her attention between watching him as he labored away on the bike, and the monitors, scanning the readings they displayed and making notes on the familiar clipboard.

The monitors were there to record his temperature, heart rate, blood pressure, lung capacity, blood oxygen saturation and his brainwave activity, and the levels of carbon dioxide he exhaled, indicating the efficiency of his pulmonary system. Intermittently she would lean in a little closer to make note of a particular reading on a different monitor and scribble it down on her report.

There was no clock in the room, so Dobbs had no idea how long he had been pedalling, but it felt like he had travelled the equivalent of the Tour De France, at least twice, and he knew that he had to keep going, pumping his legs up and down, pushing the pedals around and around, until Sykes said he could stop, and that would only happen when the stopwatch in her other hand beeped.

This, she had told him before he began, would be the last activity he would be required to take part in today.

He had already pounded out the equivalent of a marathon on the treadmill, climbed what felt like every damned tree in the Amazon basin, up and down the ropes non stop, then rowed up and down the Nile in the rowing machine ….

And as he fought now to drag in one more breath to fill his aching, starving lungs, and to drive his leaden, burning legs to push down on the pedal, around and around, Roger Dobbs understood what all the fuss had been about.

Jardine's lecture, about measuring up.

Sykes concerns about his low blood sugar readings and lack of sleep.

He had never worked so damned hard in all his life.

And if there was one thing Roger Dobbs was not, it was lazy.

And if this was how it was going to be on Project Thunderbird, day in day out ….

Then there was every likelihood that he would be carried out of here in a pine box.

Or in a straightjacket, a quivering, jabbering wreck …. His new home, a nice little padded cell!

"Ok, Major," Dobbs suddenly felt a warm, gentle hand resting against the burning, bulging, bicep muscle at the top of his left arm and realised that Dr Sykes was addressing him, concern etched into her face.

"I said you can stop now," she smiled at him benignly now, seeming to realise that he had psyched himself out for a moment, so that he could endure what was left of the test and go through the pain barrier.

Dobbs let out a deep groan of relief and began to slow down his pedalling until his legs came to a gentle halt and he slumped forward slightly to lean over the narrow handlebars, panting raggedly.

"That's fine," Dr Sykes continued to smile softly at him, reaching out to gently remove the clips from the bridge of his nose, allowing him to breathe out through his nose again at last.

"I just need you to stay where you are for a few more minutes. I still have a few checks to do," she explained, reaching out for her clipboard once more, and scanning the banks of monitors. "I have to record you heart rate and blood pressure while you are getting your breath back and then we will have a complete picture of your physical fitness, from resting to onset of exercise and then in recovery …. And I'm sorry, but I will need to take a little more blood, need to check it for certain hormone levels, and blood oxygen saturation …. As well as glucose levels after strenuous exercise."

Dobbs nodded vigorously in understanding, unable to speak because of the oxygen tube in his mouth, and feeling his heart rate steadying and his lungs recovering now.

"Well," she glanced down at her clipboard once more, then back up at his expectant face, her pretty violet eyes twinkling with amusement. "You passed with flying colours," she grinned, most charmingly. "Welcome aboard, Major."

Dobbs let out a deep sigh of relief and nodded once again.

"Of course, there are other tests that you will need complete," she warned now. "Psychiatric evaluations play a big part in our admission criteria too," she elaborated when she saw his brows drawing together in a frown. "But, that's for later today. So, you can relax, for a little while. The physical evaluation is over, and you have more than met the required criteria for entry into the project. Congratulations, Major."

Her praise seemed sincere and her congratulations genuine, so Roger Dobbs allowed himself a half smile, around the breathing tube still taped to his mouth, but, even as he did so, he suspected that to her it would look more like a grimace.

"Now, when you've gotten your breath back, we'll go through a few stretches, so that you can 'warm down' …. Less risk of injury that way," she was telling him all of this whilst preparing a new hypodermic syringe to draw the fresh blood sample she had mentioned. "And then, you can hit the showers and be out of here, before I devise a few more tortures for you," she chuckled, reaching out now to gently peel away the tape from the corner of his mouth so that he could spit out the tube.

"Thank you Ma'am." he finally managed, in a gravel voice and she handed him a small cup of water. He nodded his thanks as he put the cup to his lips and drank thirstily and when he handed her the empty cup, she passed him a soft, fluffy, freshly laundered towel, which he used to mop his brow and wrap around his perspiration soaked neck and shoulders.

When she had done drawing blood and had finished labelling the sample, Sara Sykes indicated that he return to one of the crash mats and together they went through a stretching routine, so that his muscles could relax and cool down slowly, and out of the corner of his eye, Roger Dobbs could not stop himself from admiring the graceful, supple movements of the doctor's slender body, as she showed him how to stretch and bend.

"Yoga," she grinned, in response to his questioning look. "Good for the mind and the body."

"I'll take your word for it, Ma'am."

"Ok, that's it Major …. I think we're all done."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

"Make sure you have something to eat, and then get your head down. When the others report for their evening schedule, you will be required to report to my colleague, Dr Edward Van Dam, for your psychiatric evaluation."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

"See you around, Major."

"Ma'am?" he arched an eyebrow in curiosity now.

"You'll be going through something similar to this most days, from now on, Major," she smirked at the look of disgust on his face now. "No pain, no gain …. Or so they say."

"Ma'am, yes, Ma'am!"

"We have to make sure that you stay this fit, Major. It would be criminal, no, a crying shame, to allow that wonderful physique of yours to waste away, sitting in a classroom all day long," she winked at him then, and Roger Dobbs found himself doing a double take.

"I could get used to it Ma'am. At a push," he mumbled.

"I'm sure you could, Major, but it ain't gonna happen."

"Ma'am."

"They don't call me Psycho Sara for nothing, you know. Now, go on, get out of here, and remember, you need to keep your blood glucose levels up when you're slated to fly, or else you and I will end up seeing a lot more of each other than you bargained for."