The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

attend its own needs and leave the mind alone. The mind wasn't supposed to be
bothered. The mind gave orders and expected them to be followed. It didn't need
distractions like this. How could purpose exist with distractions? He'd
determined his life's purpose long years before.
But it simply would not go away, and finally he had to return to the physician.
A more careful examination was undertaken. He allowed his body to be poked and
prodded, to have his blood drawn by a needle instead of the more violent
instruments for which he had prepared himself. Maybe it was something almost
serious, the physician told him, a low-order systemic infection, for example.
There were drugs to treat that. Malaria, once pandemic to the region for
example, had similar but more serious debilitating effects, as did any number of
maladies which had once been serious but were now easily defeated by the forces
available to modem medicine. The tests would show what was wrong, and the doctor
was determined to fix it. He knew of his patient's purpose in life, and shared
it from a safer and more distant perspective.
He returned to the doctor's office two days later. Immediately, he knew that
something was wrong. He'd seen the same look often enough on the face of his
intelligence officer. Something unexpected. Something to interfere with plans.
The doctor began speaking slowly, searching for words, trying to find a way to
make the message easier, but the patient would have none of that. He had chosen
to live a dangerous life, and demanded the information as directly as he would
have given it.
The physician nodded respectfully, and replied in kind. The man took the news
dispassionately. He was accustomed to disappointments of many kinds. He knew
what lay at the end of every life, and had many times helped to deliver it to
others. So. Now it lay in his path also, to be avoided if possible but there
nonetheless, perhaps near, perhaps not. He asked what could be done, and the
news was less bad than he had expected. The doctor did not insult him with words
of comfort, but read his patient's mind and explained the facts of the matter.
There were things to be done. They might succeed. They might not. Time would
tell. His physical strength would help a great deal, as would his iron
determination. A proper state of mind, the physician told him, was highly
important. The patient almost smiled at that, but stopped himself. Better to
show the courage of a stoic than the hope of a fool. And what was death, after
all? Had he not lived a life dedicated to justice? To the will of God? Had he
not sacrificed his life to a great and worthy purpose?
But that was the rub. He was not a man who planned on failure. He had selected a
goal for his life, and years before determined to reach it, regardless of cost
to himself or others. On that altar he had sacrificed everything he might have
been, the dreams of his dead parents, the education which they had hoped he
would use for the betterment of himself and others, a normal, comfortable life
with a woman who might bear him sons – all of that he had rejected in favor of a
path of toil, danger, and utter determination to reach that single, shining
goal.
And now? Was it all for nothing? Was his life to end without meaning? Would he
never see the day for which he had lived? Was God that cruel? All these thoughts
paraded through his consciousness while his face remained neutral, his eyes