C.C. Babcock sighed heavily as she pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. She was tired and irritated; somehow she'd let her cell phone battery run out of juice, and she was now forced to use an airport payphone that was sticky with the sweat of a thousand poor people. She shifted her weight on her feet while the phone rang.
"Sheffield residence."
"Niles?" she asked through the static.
"My, my, it's the Mouth that Roared," the cultured English accent replied.
"Don't give me grief, Butler Boy, I'm tired and cranky – "
"And this is different how?" he asked.
She rolled her eyes skyward and groaned.
"Just get Maxwell on the phone. Now."
"Mr. Sheffield is out for the evening," he replied. Then, just to rub her face in it, "he took his fiancée out for dinner."
C.C. gritted her teeth. Lucky thing Ragmop couldn't see her face; she really didn't want him to know how much he got to her when he brought up Maxwell's engagement to Nanny Fine.
"Great," she spit out, "I'm working my butt off, and he's out carousing with the hired help. Well, good for him. Take a message, then. Tell him I'll be arriving at JFK tomorrow at 2:10PM. Have him arrange for me to be picked up at the British Airways terminal."
"British Airways? I thought you were flying on United, since the Concorde cancelled its broom service."
"I was on United, but I finished here early, and all their flights tonight are booked."
"Well, it is the Christmas season," Niles reminded her.
"Yeah, yeah, ho ho ho. I just want to get out of the Third World and get home to my own bed as soon as possible."
"If you can find it under the dust," he remarked.
"Shove it, Hoover Breath." She paused for a moment to hear an announcement over the loudspeaker:
EgyptAir flight 181 to Athens now boarding at Gate 11.
"I've got to run, they just called my flight."
"Egypt Air?" Niles asked, having heard the announcement.
"That was the only way I could get home at short notice. I'm flying into Athens, and catching a British Air flight from there. Make sure Maxwell gets my message." And with that she hung up, grabbed her carry-on bag, and headed for Gate 11.
C.C. joined the slow-moving line and grumbled to herself.
"You'd think they'd at least have priority boarding for first class passengers." She looked ahead at the aircraft as she waited on the jetway. "If they even have first class; this crate looks like the freakin' Spirit of St. Louis."
She eventually made her way on board and found her seat. She took out some paperwork and stowed her bag under the seat. The man in the next seat looked at her appreciatively, taking in her well-cut cream-colored slacks and silk blouse. She saw him out the corner of her eye and prayed silently that he wouldn't try to make conversation with her. But luck was not with her.
"So, do you live in Vienna?" he asked her.
"No," she replied, "I was there on business."
"Oh, what line of work are you in?" he leaned closer to her.
Mustering up what she hoped was an air of impatience, she responded, "I'm in the theatre business. I had to check out the Vienna Opera House for an upcoming show my company is producing." She turned back to the papers on her lap with an air of finality.
Luckily, the flight attendant approached taking drink orders, and that distracted her seatmate for the time being. C.C. stretched her long legs out in front of her tiredly. It had been an exhausting 10 days, booking houses in Europe for Max's latest production. Normally such negotiations could've been arranged via fax, but the news of her partner's engagement gave C.C. the urge to get away. She'd volunteered to meet with the promoters in person to dicker for better percentages and to personally inspect the facilities.
The pre-flight instructions were given, and the plane took off, only a few minutes behind schedule. C.C. settled back in her seat and closed her eyes, ignoring the papers in her lap.
About ten minutes into the flight, she opened her eyes with a start. She looked around and was vaguely aware of a commotion in the back of the plane. Suddenly the curtain separating first class from coach was pulled open and a wild-eyed man with a gun was shouting something in a foreign language. Another man appeared behind him, brandishing a hand grenade and yelling in English.
"Everyone! Do as you are told!"
"What the...." C.C. thought to herself. The whole scene was surreal and it took a few minutes for reality to sink in. "Oh my God, we're being hijacked!"
The man with the gun had a flight attendant by the neck and was banging on the cockpit door. The stewardess was sobbing and shouting "Captain! Please! Open the door! They will kill us!"
Meanwhile, the grenade man ordered all the first class passengers to go to the back of the plane. C.C. instinctively grabbed her purse and followed the others back into coach, where the other passengers had been herded back into the rearmost seats.
An announcement came over the loudspeaker: "Ladies and gentlemen, we are being hijacked. Please don't panic. We are cooperating with their demands. Please obey their orders and everyone will be OK."
"Hell of a lot of good all those so-called security measures did," C.C. muttered to no one in particular. "Where are the damned air marshals?" Looking around, she couldn't tell at a glance for sure, but she suspected that there weren't very many American passengers aboard. Certainly she was the only one with obviously Nordic features. She suddenly felt very conspicuous, and tried to slump down in her chair.
Another man with a gun came by and issued instructions in a foreign language. The flight attendant with him was holding a sack, and translated for him.
"Please, everyone, get your passports out and put them in this bag. I am collecting passports, please have them ready," she repeated as she went from row to row.
C.C. removed her blue-covered passport with its distinctive gold eagle emblem on the front from her purse and dropped it in the bag. She felt aggravated more than afraid; they were forced to fit four people in five seats, and she was squished against a man that smelled of curry powder.
"I've seen enough movies to know that this could take a while," she thought to herself. "Thank God I went to the bathroom before we took off."
C.C. presumed they'd fly to some airport and sit until some political prisoners of one type or another were released, and then they'd be free to go home. That's how it worked on the Lifetime channel, after all. What a pain; she'd surely miss her connection in Athens now. Time ticked by, the passengers were silent, the only sound was the drone of the airplane engines.
She must've dozed off, because the next thing she knew her ears were popping and the plane was landing. She couldn't look out the window, as all the shades had been drawn. She heard some murmuring from the passengers around her, but of course, they weren't murmuring in English. "Figures," she thought to herself.
After the plane landed, they sat for awhile, and then the purser made an announcement.
"Will the following passengers please come foreword when I call their names?"
The passengers grew eerily quiet and looked around at each other in anticipation.
"Hayim Greenberg."
An older man with a long beard, dressed in a black suit, rose and slowly, deliberately approached the front of the plane. A gunman stood at the head of the aisle with a pistol trained on him.
"Randall Baker."
A tall, bookish-looking man with wire-framed glasses got up.
"Victoria Westlane."
No one moved. Two men with guns stomped down the aisle and forcefully grabbed the wrist of a redheaded woman in her mid-20s. One man waved a passport in his hand, thrusting it in her face and demanding "You? You!" They pulled her to her feet and pushed her up towards the front of the plane.
"Chastity Babcock."
C.C.'s breath caught in her throat, and she froze for a moment. Then, as if in a daze, she got out of her seat and approached the front.
When she got to the front of the plane, she was unceremoniously shoved into a window seat. The Westlane woman was next to her, and the two men were across the aisle. Looking at the passports in the flight attendant's hand, C.C. realized that they'd singled out the American passengers along with the lone Israeli passenger. Suddenly her anger dissipated and her limbs were licked cold with the icy flames of fear.
The long hours of waiting began. As the hijackers wandered up and down the aisle and consulted in the cockpit, the four passengers in the front managed to exchange some whispered messages.
"Any idea where we are?"
"I heard someone mention Turkey," responded Victoria, in a frightened voice with a distinctively Southern accent.
The hostages could hear some of the conversation in the cockpit, and determined that the hijackers were negotiating for fuel. So far, the Turkish airport was refusing them. Then they heard the words that chilled them to the bone:
"Please be advised that we will kill one passenger every 15 minutes until we get fuel."
And suddenly there was a man with a gun standing next to them in the aisle. He gestured to Hayim Greenberg.
"You! You will come with me!"
Greenberg hesitated, and the hijacker whacked him over the head with his pistol. C.C. cringed as she heard the dull, meaty thud when it hit his skull. Greenberg got up and was pushed/pulled to the open door of the plane. As if in slow motion, C.C. watched the hijacker aim his gun at the back of Hayim's head and pull the trigger. They heard the shot, and then watched the body bounce down the stairs after the hijacker gave it a push. There were screams and cries throughout the plane. The pilot could be heard screaming on the microphone: "They've killed a passenger! They've killed a passenger!"
C.C. fought back a wave of nausea and closed her eyes. Victoria shrieked and buried her face in C.C.'s shoulder. After a few moments the passengers grew quiet again, except for some muffled sniffles and sobbing. Despite the hijackers' threat of a 15-minute deadline, an hour went by after Mr. Greenberg had been killed. The hijackers nervously patrolled the aisle and the passengers fidgeted nervously in their seats, trying to avoid making eye contact with their captors.
"Oh, God, why didn't I stay in Vienna? Is this how it all ends, then? Like this?" C.C. thought to herself, looking towards the window, even though the shade was down. "That's all there is?" Her mind wandered, thinking of the things she'd wished she'd done. "I should've taken more time for myself. I live in New York City, and I've never been to the top of the Statue of Liberty, for crying out loud. God, the last thing I'm going to see in this life is the inside of this hideous airplane." Her thoughts jumped from one irrational topic to another. "Who is going to take care of Chester? I guess Nanny Fine... Maxwell... What did I ever see in him? He's really rather spineless, when you get down to it. Once I'm gone, how long before he finds a new partner? A day? A week? Niles...Niles, with those ice blue eyes, the accent that makes me melt. God, he's only the help, and I may have been drunk, but I still remember his arms around me that night. His kiss...his lips on my....oh, why didn't I ever tell him how I felt?"
Even though she was terrified, and tried to concentrate on the situation at hand, she couldn't help but think of Niles. "That Dustmop would've weaseled out of this if he was here, with his Limey passport. Mmmm, that Limey...British accent, his beautiful voice..." She wished he was there to put his arms around her and murmer in her ear that everything was going to be OK. Victoria interrupted her thoughts when she whispered, "Are we doing to die?"
"I don't know," C.C. replied. "Unless the cavalry, or at least the Delta Force, suddenly shows up, of course we're going to die, you ninny." But C.C. kept that last thought to herself.
"Will....will you pray with me. Please?" the younger girl asked.
C.C. nodded and held Victoria's hand as she bowed her head. She tried to concentrate on the words of the Lord's Prayer, but her mind still flitted from thought to thought. "Why me, why now, why me? Niles, do you know I'm thinking about you? Would you care if you did? Oh, dear God, I hope I didn't leave anything embarrassing in my apartment. I don't need Nanny Fine gossiping about me when they clean the place out...."
As the time dragged on, and the standoff continued between the control tower and the cockpit, the hijackers eventually dispatched first Victoria and then Randy the same way they'd done with Hiyam Greenberg. C.C. intertwined her fingers together in her lap to keep her hands from shaking. She'd lost all track of time and began thinking to herself "maybe I should try to pray again? Nah, why start now? God would only laugh at me. Just like everyone else does..." She jolted from her reverie when she heard a noise to her left. With unbearable certainty, she looked up as a gunman approached her seat.
"You. Come." He reached down and grabbed her arm.
"Unhand me, you smelly, illiterate peasant," she snapped, shaking him off. Even if it was the last thing she did, she was determined to maintain her dignity. She arose and walked slowly, her jaw set, to the open airplane door, pointedly wiping off the place on her silk blouse that the hijacker had touched. Her thoughts tumbled around in a panic. Her hands were free, could she overpower this guy? Not likely, there were at least two more gunmen that she had seen, plus the man with the grenade.
C.C. stood at the precipice of the open plane door and looked outside. This was the last time she would see sunshine, she thought to herself. She heard the pilot yelling into the microphone, and the gunman behind her yelling back. Suddenly the grenade man shouted something, C.C. turned her head, and the gunman glanced away while simultaneously pulling the trigger.
C.C. heard what sounded like an explosion inside her head and the world around her turned gray. She had the sensation of falling....falling....falling. The ground suddenly reached up and caught her. She lay still for a moment and then cautiously opened her eyes. "Am I dead?" she wondered.
She lay on the tarmac partially on her side, and partially face down. She heard sounds, but they sounded so very far away. She hurt all over, and the world seemed to be swirling around her. Yet she instinctively knew to hold perfectly still, to play dead. Just in case they were still watching.
Niles was slouched on the sofa, flipping around channels on the TV distractedly. He was sleepy, but had to wait for Mr. Sheffield and Fran to get home before he could go to bed. Knowing Fran, she'd probably want a late-night nosh before retiring, despite the fact that she'd just had a hearty dinner. Shortly before midnight, he heard a key in the front door, and the couple burst in, giggling and talking.
"I trust you had a pleasant evening?" he asked as he took their coats.
"Oh, it was wonderful!" Fran exclaimed. "And look how they wrapped the doggy bag!" She held a foil-wrapped package aloft. It was shaped like a swan.
"Lovely," he mumbled, as he relieved her of the package and went to put it in the refrigerator.
"Well, I'm exhausted," Max yawned, "I think I'll call it a night..."
Suddenly their attention was diverted by a news broadcast on the TV.
"We interrupt this program with a special announcement. We have breaking news on a terrorist situation in Turkey."
"Oy," sighed Fran, "Will it ever end?"
Niles returned to the living room. "What goes on?" he asked.
"Some sort of hijacking," Max replied as he turned to go upstairs.
The news anchor looked earnestly into the camera and reported:
"Egypt Air flight 181 was hijacked shortly after takeoff tonight and is now on the runway at Adana-Sakirpasa Airport in Turkey. We have an unconfirmed report that several American passengers have been shot...."
They didn't hear the rest; the broadcast was drowned out by an ear-piercing, gut-wrenching cry that came from Niles.
"Noooo!"
"What's the matter, old man?" Max came back down the stairs and looked at Niles curiously.
"Miss Babcock. She's on that plane."
"What are you talking about? C.C.'s in Vienna. She's not due home until Friday."
Niles struggled to control his quivering voice as he sunk down onto the couch.
"No," he spoke in a monotone as he stared straight ahead. "She called. She left early. She was on an Egypt Air flight. I'm sure that's the one." His chest was heaving up and down as he spoke.
Fran and Max exchanged glances, and Fran sat next to Niles.
"I'm sure there's more than one Egypt flight outta Australia or wherever," she comforted Niles. "There's probably nothing to worry about."
"No," Niles repeated. "I know. I just know."
C.C. remained still on the tarmac. It started to rain lightly, and as the raindrops hit her head wound, she struggled not to cringe with pain. It felt like she was being pelted with stones. She took a chance and scooched ever so slightly underneath the bottom step of the stairway, so that her wound was protected from the rain. She was suddenly aware of a rumbling noise nearby. She waited. There were footsteps. Hands reached down and flipped her over. She reflexively moaned in pain.
"Hey!" a voice shouted. "This one's alive!"
She was placed on a stretcher and put into a car of some sort. She braced herself for another gunshot. When none came, she finally spoke.
"Who are you?"
"We're medics, miss. We're taking you to the hospital."
For the first time in many hours, C.C. relaxed, and then she blacked out.
When she awoke, she was in a hospital, and her head was swathed in bandages. Her throat was dry, and she hurt everywhere. A nurse was standing next to her, writing on her chart.
"Where am I?" C.C. croaked.
The nurse was momentarily startled, then signaled for a doctor. A dark-haired man in a white jacket smiled down at C.C.
"Hello, Miss Babcock. How do you feel?"
"Lousy."
He chuckled. "I am Dr. Kemal, and you are at the Incirlik Hospital in Turkey."
C.C. struggled to grasp what he was saying, but the effort exhausted her.
"You have a head injury. We've taken some X-rays and are waiting for your vital signs to stabilize before we perform surgery."
"Surgery?"
"Yes. You have a bullet lodged in your head. We've made arrangements for Dr. T. Forcht Dagi to operate tomorrow, hopefully. He's a neurosurgeon, one of the best. He's flying in from India."
"Dr. Dagwood? What?" C.C. was groggy from the pain medication she'd been given.
"If you could just sign this release..." he held up a clipboard in front of her. C.C. weakly grasped the proffered pen, and let the doctor's hand guides hers as he made an X on the signature line.
"You rest now," Dr. Kemal told her. "I'll be back to check on you later. In the meantime, if you need anything just ring."
"Babcock. C.C. Babcock. She was on an Egypt Air flight departing from Vienna," Maxwell shouted into the phone. He was getting exasperated, having first phoned the airline, then FBI, then the State Department. The Feds were up and working despite the late hour, due to the hostage situation. Once C.C.'s name had been verified on the passenger manifest, Max's call was put through to the proper authority.
"Yes, Mr. Sheffield," a voice informed him. "I'm sorry to confirm that Miss Babcock is indeed on flight 181."
"How can I get there? To wherever she is?"
"Are you a family member?"
"I'm her business partner. She has no family, to speak of."
After checking with a few superiors, the voice on the phone was able to arrange an Air Force flight to take Max to the hospital in Turkey.
"Fran, pack me an overnight bag. I've got to get to JFK right away."
"I'm going, too," Niles said evenly.
Thanks to his impeccable organization, Niles had the necessities packed within a matter of minutes. He returned to the living room, awaiting Maxwell, when Fran came down the stairs.
"I've ordered a limo for you two, you're both too upset to drive yourselves," she said, putting an arm around Niles. She was secretly surprised to see how concerned Niles was over C.C.'s situation, but this was not the time to ask questions.
Max trotted down the stairs, bag in one hand, passport in the other.
"Take care of things here, won't you love," he said, kissing Fran as she flung her arms around his neck.
"Call me as soon as you know anything," she made him promise.
The two men stepped out into the night air and into the waiting limo.
It was 3:00 in the afternoon the next day local time when a weary and tense Max and Niles arrived at Incirlik Air Base. It had not been a pleasant trip; apart from their mental stress, they'd taken a small, private plane from JFK to Stewart Air Force Base, then were transported on a military cargo plane to Turkey. The accommodations had been less than luxurious, and the conversation had been sparse. Max noticed Niles' obvious preoccupation, and tried to distract him a few times with light conversation.
"I bet C.C. will be fit to be tied once she's released," Max joked.
Niles stared straight ahead and replied evenly, "If those bastards have hurt her, I'll kill them. Every last one of them."
Max was surprised by his friend's sudden compassion for a woman he'd thought was his sworn enemy. On the other hand, he did see them in a liplock that one night...maybe they hadn't been as drunk as he'd thought.
Upon arrival in Turkey they'd been whisked through Passport Control stepped into the bullet-proof limo that had been arranged by the American embassy in Turkey. The ride to the hospital was tense. The medical facility was crawling with reporters from around the world; the hijacking was big news, and the media was trying to find out how many survivors from flight 181 were inside. Niles and Max were escorted past the throng by an official and led down a corridor. There they were met by Dr. Kemal. The escort exchanged a few words in Turkish with the doctor, and then he turned to the obviously disheveled Americans.
"You are friends of Miss Babcock?" he smiled politely.
"Yes, how is she? Where is she?" Maxwell and Niles almost spoke in unison.
"You are just in time," the doctor replied, motioning them to sit down on the available chairs. "Miss Babcock's condition is stable at the moment. She has a bullet lodged in her head..."
"My God!" Niles involuntarily gasped.
"We have a highly respected neurosurgeon on the way," Dr. Kemal continued. "We expect him within the next 30 minutes. After he looks at the X-rays, we'll know more."
"Can we see her?" Maxell asked.
"She's resting right now," Dr. Kemal said gently. "It would be best if you wait for Dr. Dagi."
"Is it safe for her to have that thing in her head all this time?" Maxwell asked. "Shouldn't you get that bullet out of her head as soon as possible?"
"Mr.....Sheffield, is it? Mr. Sheffield, there are many considerations with an injury such as this. Our main priority when she arrived was to stabilize her vital signs, get her blood pressure down. The risk for stroke is increased otherwise, you see? We also cleaned the wound as best we could to prevent infection. Luckily, there is no evidence of ricochet or hematoma. The cranial pressure is fine. Trust me, we're doing what's best for her."
After further consultation, Niles and Maxwell were led to a private waiting area where they were protected from the paparazzi. There was nothing they could do but wait.
"Gentlemen?" a cultured British accent asked. Max and Niles looked up to see a tall, slender dark man in a white jacket. "I am Dr. Dagi. Would you please come with me?"
He turned and walked down a corridor, with Niles and Max trailing behind him. He led them to a small room, where a series of X-Rays were clipped up on an illuminated board.
"I understand that you are friends of Miss Babcock."
The two murmured in the affirmative.
"I shall be performing the surgery on her to remove the bullet. See here..." he gestured to one of the X-Rays, "it is lodged in the lower skull, partially penetrating the cerebellum, but there may be bone fragments that were pushed up into the Occipital Lobe...."
"Can you put it a little more simply?" asked an exasperated Maxwell.
"Certainly. The cerebellum is the part of the brain that manages movement, including walking and balance. It is also part of the short-term memory storage. Damage to the Occipital Lobe could affect vision, concentration and sleeping cycles. We won't know until we actually explore the area whether the bullet splintered any bone fragments that may have lodged in the Occipital Lobe. We're hoping that's not the case."
Niles, who'd been sitting with his head in his hands up 'til now, looked up at the surgeon.
"Will you have to shave her head for surgery?"
"That's the usual procedure...why?"
"Is there any way you could just shave the portion that's being operated on? So she won't be bald?"
"Yes, I suppose. It's done that way for many brain tumor patients, I don't see why we can't do it in this case."
Niles looked at the question marks on Maxwell's face. "After all she's been through, Miss Babcock shouldn't have to awake and see a bald head in the mirror to remind her of this incident."
Secretly, Niles knew that despite his insults, his calling her a cow and a brunette and everything else, that Miss Babcock was as concerned about her appearance as any other woman. He felt so helpless at the moment; allowing her to maintain some semblance of her dignity seemed like the least he could do for her.
Dr. Diga promised to report back to the pair as soon as he had any news, and left to scrub for surgery. He suggested they go relax in the cafeteria and get something to eat, as the surgery would take several hours.
Max was silent as the pair walked towards the cafeteria. He'd actually been stunned by Niles' thoughtfulness as far as C.C.'s hair. Did the old chap have feelings for Miss Babcock? Max had to admit to himself that he wouldn't have been able to describe how C.C. even wore her hair; these days he was too wrapped up in Fran.
The two men found the cafeteria and bought a cup of coffee each. The strong Turkish java nearly took the top of Maxwell's head off, but Niles didn't seem to notice how vile the drink was; he drank it down in a few sips while staring blankly ahead.
Max finally spoke. "I'm sure she'll be fine, old boy."
Niles started, as if waking from a daydream. "What? Oh, yes. I wasn't worried, I was...thinking about something else."
"Like what?"
"Um," Niles fumbled around for a moment, then replied, "like how long will this take; you shouldn't be away from business and Miss Fine too long, after all. And where will we stay? You're exhausted, and I doubt there are any five-star hotels in this area."
"Oh, so you've been worrying about me, eh?" Max looked at him skeptically.
"Of course, what else?"
Niles drained his cup and reached over and took Max's. He threw back a swallow.
"You're nervous enough without all that caffeine," Max observed.
"I need the jolt," Niles responded. "I'm going to be doing a lot of pacing."
"Gentlemen?" a nurse asked questioningly.
Max looked up from his seat in the waiting room, and Niles dashed over from where he'd been walking the perimeter of the small area.
"If you would please come with me," she gestured, as she led them down the hall to the small room where'd they'd looked at those X-Rays so many hours ago. Niles visibly braced himself as a tired-looking Dr. Kemel entered.
"She's doing well," was the first thing he said. "Dr. Dagi is truly a fine surgeon."
"What's her prognosis?" Max asked.
"When can we see her?" Niles asked at the same time.
"She'll be taken to recovery within half an hour, and you can visit briefly then." He gestured towards the chairs in the room and the three of them sat down.
"We removed the bullet," he began. "There was some damage to the cerebellum, but at the moment, it didn't look like anything too severe. There were only a few small bone fragments, from what we could see, and we removed those without much difficulty. Our main concern for the next 24 hours is infection. The brain sometimes reacts to being invaded, and it may swell. That could cause additional damage. We will keep a close watch."
Max sighed and slid back in his chair. It had been a hellish 48 hours, and with this report from the doctor, he felt like he could finally relax a little. Niles was perched on the edge of his chair, his face only inches from Dr. Kemel.
"What damage has been done? Is Miss Babcock going to fully recover? What else can be done for her?" the questions poured out in a rush, and Dr. Kemel stopped Niles mid-sentence by holding up his hand.
"We won't know for sure how much brain damage has been done until she has recovered somewhat from the surgery and tests can be run. She was lucky that the bullet that struck her was homemade."
"Lucky?" Niles snorted.
"Yes," the doctor responded. "As is the case in many underground terrorist cults, they have little money, so they have to work with what they have, often fashioning their own weapons. The bullet that struck Miss Babcock had been hollowed out and repacked sloppily. It lacked the power of a commercial projectile. Plus, the trajectory was odd; being shot at close range, the bullet should have gone straight into the temporal lobe. For some reason, the path went upwards, at a slight angle."
As he pictured the gun being held to C.C.'s head, Niles tensed, grinding his fist into his other hand.
"How is she, though? Is she going to be OK, or a vegetable, or what?" Niles was practically shouting. Max reached over and lightly put his hand on Niles' shoulder.
"Mr....?"
"Worthington. Niles Worthington."
"Mr. Worthington, as I said, we won't know for sure until further tests can be run. I can only tell you at this time that there is some damage to the cerebellum. The cerebellum processes information other areas of the brain, spinal cord and sensory receptors to provide precise timing for coordinated, smooth movements of the skeletal muscular system. In addition, there may be involvement from the Occipital Lobe, which could mean her hearing or vision or short-term memory could be affected. We simply don't know right now."
The doctor sighed and rose.
"The nurse will come fetch you when Miss Babcock is in recovery." He inclined his head politely to them, and left.
C.C. moaned quietly and slowly opened her eyes.
"Good day, Miss," a white-clad figure greeted her with heavily accented English. She adjusted the IV and made a notation on C.C.'s chart.
"What...who....where am I? What's going on?"
"The doctor will speak with you directly," the nurse cheerfully replied, then disappeared.
C.C. groaned in pain again, and attempted to turn her head to take in her surroundings. It hurt to move, and there was something in her way. She moved slightly again. Something was wrapped around her head. She paused for a moment. She remembered an airplane flight, Niles, falling, falling, someone saying "medic", a ride in a rickety ambulance, clucking like a chicken, the smell of curry, people jabbering in a foreign language... She struggled to put the pieces together, but the mental effort exhausted her. She sighed and closed her eyes.
"Miss Babcock?"
She opened her eyes at the sound of a clipped British accent.
"I am Dr. Dagi. I am the surgeon that operated on you. Do you know why you're here?"
C.C. sighed. "My head hurts. I hurt all over. I supposed that has something to do with it?"
The surgeon smiled and patted her hand which was resting atop the covers. "We'll give you something for the pain soon. Do you remember anything else?"
"Plane. I was flying home. Trying to." she paused, then grew excited, and tried to sit up. "We were hijacked! Have they been caught?" She moaned at the resultant pain of moving, and sank back into the pillows.
"You received a gunshot wound," the doctor explained. "We removed the bullet. You're going to be all right."
The anger that had evaporated so quickly during the hijacking returned with a vengeance.
"Fucking bastards. I couldn't even identify one of them if I had to. They didn't wear masks, but those goddamned people all look alike..."
Dr. Dagi tried to ignore the slight, charging off her attitude to her condition. "Miss Babcock, you must know that in addition to the head wound, you also suffered three broken ribs, some torn ligaments in your neck, and a hairline fracture of your left wrist."
C.C. recalled bouncing off the metal staircase as she'd fallen from the plane. "Yeah, well, Mrs. Peter Pan I'm not. Cripes, I'm talking like what's her name, Nanny Fine's mother...."
Dr. Dagi didn't understand what she said, and, thinking her language skills had been affected,
made a note on her chart to arrange for a neuropsychological examination as part of her follow-up treatment.
The doctor checked C.C.'s vital signs and assured her all was well. "If you need anything, the buzzer is right here. Dr. Kemel is on duty and is familiar with your case. Right now, if you're up to it, you have some friends here wanting to see you."
C.C. stifled the urge to reply "I don't have any friends" and instead said simply "Oh?"
A nurse entered the room, followed by two dearly familiar faces. For a moment C.C. thought she was hallucinating.
"Niles?" she said questioningly. Then, as an afterthought, "and Maxwell?"
The two men stood by her bedside, and Niles picked up her exposed hand and held it.
"When did you get here? How did you know....?" C.C. was confused, and was trying to make sense of the situation.
"My dear Miss Babcock," Niles replied, "you've hit the big time. The hijacking news is being broadcast on everything from CNN to the Spanish soap opera channel."
"And you came all this way to see me? You didn't just send a singing telegram?"
Niles mentally breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently, at least part of C.C.'s memory was intact, and she was feeling well enough to make jokes.
Max almost felt like he was intruding, so he cleared his throat and spoke. "C.C.? The doctor says that if your vital signs remain stable, you can be moved the day after tomorrow."
"Only if Turkey has a contract with International Harvester...." Niles muttered.
"Lick a bedpan, Dust Buster," C.C. shot back.
Max shook his head. Those two never quit. "Anyway, I've spoken to the ambassador; they've made arrangements for you to be transported first to Walter Reed hospital in Washington, DC, and then home."
"Why can't I just go home when I get out of here?"
"There are military authorities that want to talk to you, C.C.," Max explained. "They have an excellent medical staff there that can tend to your needs, but apparently you also have to be debriefed before going home."
"Debriefed? Now there's something she can do in her slee-"
"Can it, Butler Boy," C.C. retorted, although she was smiling as she said it. Somehow his insults made her feel safe.
A nurse entered the room and tactfully suggested that the patient could do with some rest now. Max and Niles said their good-byes, and gave C.C. reassurances that she would be OK, and that they'd stay with her until she got home. Niles was the last to leave, and he held onto her hand as if he never wanted to let go.
"Niles?" C.C. whispered, as fatigue overcame her.
"Yes, I'm here, Miss Babcock."
"Thank you." she breathed, and then fell asleep.
When Niles walked out into the corridor, Max was already on his cell phone, speaking to Fran. He updated her on C.C.'s condition.
"That's fabulous, Sweetie," Fran honked on her end. "Did you see on the news? What happened to the plane?"
"No, we haven't left the hospital since we arrived."
"Oh, well, I've had CNN on since you left, even though it's been on all the other stations, too. The plane left Turkey and flew to Tunisia, and then commandoes stormed it. You should see, so much chaos..."
"My God," Max sighed.
"All they've said is that all the hijackers are dead, but so are some of the passengers. Isn't it terrible? I thought after that flight 847 thing security was so tight this would never happen again.... I'm really worried about you flying home, baby."
"I'll be fine, Fran. No pun intended." Max paused, slightly proud of himself for coming up with a joke despite his current state of mind. "Can you somehow get a hold of C.C.'s mother, or brother, or someone? Let them know what's going on?"
"Will do. Oh, and Max? There are a bunch of reporters and news vans outside. Apparently they found out that Miss Babcock works here. I haven't spoken to anyone, but they keep ringing the doorbell, and the children are getting upset. They're afraid to leave the house."
"Look in my Rolodex, under P. You'll find the name of a private security firm...Preston, I believe...we've used in the past when we've brought in VIPs for shows. They know me, have them send some men over to keep the place secure."
Fran scribbled on a notepad as Max spoke. "Got it." A pause. "I miss you so much, Sweetie. Take care of yourself."
"I'll be home before you know it," Max replied. "I love you, Fran."
"I love you, too, Max."
Niles approached Max after he'd finished his call.
"Miss Babcock is sleeping now, sir. There's not much else we can do tonight. May I suggest we retire for the evening, so we can be here bright and early tomorrow?"
Max sighed wearily. "Sounds like a plan." He dialed the number of the American Embassy and requested the limo. Within the hour, the two left the hospital via a service entrance, to avoid the press, and soon found themselves ensconced in a suite at the Hotel Amira, courtesy of the U.S. embassy.
After a room service dinner that may have been delectable, but neither man would've noticed, they parted company and retired to their respective bedrooms.
As Niles bedded down, after everything that had happened, after talking with brain surgeons and government diplomats, the words that kept reverberating in his head were those of C.C. Babcock: "Thank you."
"Thank you C.C.," he thought wearily as he sunk into the pillows. "Thank you for giving me a glimpse of what's inside the Ice Princess." As Niles drifted off to sleep, he knew that whatever special care she required, whatever it took to make her feel "normal" again, to forget that this ever happened to her, he would be there. By her side. Forever.