Digital Winter (36 page)

“Take it easy, son.” The voice was familiar. Dr. August Pickett, the hospital administrator stood. “How can I help you?”

“Wh—who are you? You a cop?”

Pickett smiled. “No, son. I'm not a cop. I'm the hospital administrator. I'm the guy you want to talk to.”

“I'm not your son. Stop calling me your son!”

“Okay. My bad. What do you want me to call you?” Pickett kept his tone even and friendly.

“Nuthin'. Don't call me nuthin'.”

“Very well. Let me guess. You want drugs. Right? Opiates maybe? I hear it's hard to score on the street these days.”

“I don't care what you hear. Just get me the stuff.”

“Sure. Come with me. I'll take you to the pharmacy. I'm sure we have something that will help you.”

“No. I'm staying here. Go get it. Get it all. I want everything. I don't want to have to come back.”

“If you come with me, you can show me what you want. I'm not very good at guessing.” A waver in his voice betrayed his fear.

Pickett was trying to put distance between the gunman and the others. That much was clear. Roni let her eyes drift to Cody. His eyes were wide, and even from a half dozen paces away, she could see the poor kid tremble.

The gunman fidgeted more, his eyes dancing around the room. “You heard me, and—” His gaze fell on Cody.

“No,” Roni whispered and took a step forward, but before she completed the stride, the strung-out attacker sprinted to the boy.

“Lemme go! Lemme go!”

“Stop.” Roni moved forward as did several others, Southwell included.

“Don't you do it. Don't even think it or I'll put a bullet in the kid's brain.” He pressed the gun to the back of Cody's head, just above the spine. He pushed hard enough to drive Cody's head down. He whimpered. “Shut up, kid, or I'll kill you right where you stand.”

“You don't need him.” Southwell's voice was calm and smooth. “You got me. You don't need to hurt the kid.” He started toward the two.

He cocked the gun and Southwell stopped in his tracks.

“Hey, pal.” Pickett got the wild man's attention again. “I'm going. Just don't hurt the kid or anyone else. I'll get you what you want. What you need. I just have to run to the pharmacy. I'll bring all the narcotics I can grab. You can choose what you want.”

“I want it all.”

“Great, you can have it. I'm going down that hall right now. Just chill. It will take me a few minutes.”

“You'd better come back. I mean it, man. And if I see one uniform, I spread the kid's brains all over the place. You hear me? Then I start shooting everyone. I got me another clip. I can take you all out.”

“No problem, pal. I'm going. I promise. I'll be right back. Okay? I'll be back.” Pickett turned and started for the junction of the lobby and hall.

“Lemme go. Lemme go!” Cody struggled.

“Shut up, kid. Please…” The man closed his eyes. “Please… just…SHUT UP!”

He was losing it. Drugs had eaten holes in the man's brain. Roni had seen it before. He wasn't rational because he couldn't be. Fear, anger, and a serious jonesing for high-octane drugs. The adrenaline coursing through his veins wasn't helping.

“Cody, stand still. Just be still.”

Cody tried to look up, but the business end of the handgun kept his movement to an inch or two. Roni could see the tears dripping from his eyes.

“Son—” Southwell started.

“I ain't your son. I ain't nobody's son.” He lifted the gun from Cody's head and pointed it at the reverend. “You stay back—”

Cody pulled away and ran along the wall toward Roni.

“Cody!” Roni was moving before she finished the first syllable.

The gunman redirected the weapon.

“No!” Roni screamed.

“No!” Southwell's voice.

A shot. Loud. Another. Muffled. Then another.

Screams. Panic.

Roni scooped Cody into her arms and turned her back to the sound of gunfire.

There were no more shots, just a command. “Get a gurney. Stat.”

Roni turned to see a struggle on the floor. One of the male nurses, a former Navy medic, rose. He held the gun and with a practiced motion ejected the clip and cleared the chamber.

“We have a man down.” Someone shouted.

Roni stopped. Nurse Padma, Roni's friend from ICU, moved to her side. Her olive skin had paled. “Is he okay?”

Roni set Cody down and looked him over, turning him so she could see the back of his head. She found a red spot where the weapon had pressed against his skull. “He's fine, aren't you, boy?” She ran a hand through his hair. “You were so brave. So very brave.”

Roni hugged him hard and fought the tears. She failed.

“We're losing him.” The voice was familiar, but Roni didn't bother to guess who it might be. She was just thankful Cody was safe. She didn't care if the gunman was hurt. He deserved what he got—

What made her think it was the gunman? She stood and turned her attention to the front of the room. Two of the burlier male nurses had the attacker pinned against the wall, his feet several inches off the floor. Something was missing.

No,
someone
.

“Padma, take Cody. Get him away from here.”

“I've got him. Come on, cowboy. Let's get out of the way.”

Roni pushed to the front. Two doctors and an ER nurse were repositioning Dr. Clarence Southwell's body on the floor as blood pooled beneath him. His pale skin chalky, his eyes open.

“Pastor?” Roni worked around to the minister's head. Dr. Charles Fulton of the ER had ripped the man's shirt open. Three entrance wounds dotted Southwell's torso. One about the middle of the ribcage on the left, one two inches above the navel, another one an inch to the right of the sternum. Frothy blood poured from the chest wound. More blood pooled in Southwell's mouth. She turned his head to the side to clear his airway.

Fulton looked up. He didn't speak. He didn't need to—his face said the unspoken word.
Hopeless
.

Southwell coughed and did his best to look into Roni's face. “The boy?”

“Safe. Fine. Thanks to you.” One of her tears fell on his face. She wiped it away. “You're going to be fine.”

He smiled. “Doctors…shouldn't lie.” Her words from a dying man.

“Thank you, Pastor. You saved him.”

“Praise God.” The word came with a gurgle.

He raised a blood-saturated hand and touched her face. “An eternal difference, Doctor. That's what matters…”

The light left his eyes; the color drained from his face. For the first time in her medical career, Roni thought she saw a soul leave a body.

T
he president's bedroom was not as Spartan as Jeremy first thought. Someone had even thought to hang art on the concrete walls—prints from early American history. Perhaps the decorator wanted the occupant to remember that the country had been through hard times before. A line of presidential portraits occupied one wall: Washington, Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, Woodrow Wilson, FDR, Truman, Johnson, and both Bushes. It took a moment for Jeremy to interpret the unspoken message: Revolutionary War, Civil War, Spanish-American War, WWI, WWII, Korea, Vietnam, Gulf War, Iraq/Afghanistan. Why else would the president be in the facility had war not broken out? Turns out there was another reason, although war seemed to be creeping over the horizon.

Barlow had regained some of his color. He sat up in bed, a stack of pillows behind him. He wore pajamas. Apparently he felt well enough to change.

“Before you ask, I'm fine. I'm alert. I'm able to carry on.”

“That's good to hear, Mr. President,” Grundy said. He sounded sincere. Jeremy would hate to be calling the shots. “You had us worried.”

“I have an irregular heart rate, and my heart has lost a step or two. When things settle, I'll have a surgical tune-up, but we're a long way away from that.”

“Can they do that here?” Grundy was starting to resemble a deflating balloon.

“I suppose they could in an emergency, but it wouldn't be ideal. Of course, there are no ideal places for heart surgery these days.” Barlow looked at Jeremy. “Maybe your wife would like to see a side of the president no one else has—the inside.” He smiled. It was weak.

“She's a trauma surgeon, sir, not a cardiologist. If you get hit by a car, however, she's your girl.” Jeremy returned the smile.

“I think I'll pass.” Barlow adjusted the nasal cannula delivering oxygen to him. He stared at Grundy. “Let's hear it, Frank. You look worse than I feel.”

“I'm trying to look sympathetic, but I can only manage pathetic.”

“Leave pathetic to me. What's happened?”

Grundy hesitated. “Have the doctors—”

“So help me, Frank, if you don't start talking, I'm going to have my wife come in here and slap you around.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” He took a deep breath. “Syria has launched a missile attack on Israel.” He repeated the report he had given Jeremy a short time before.

Barlow leaned his head back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling. “How?”

Radcliffe chose to answer. “We don't know, sir. It's possible that they had their missiles in a hardened silo or storage facility.”

“They hit targets?”

“Yes, sir. Tel Aviv for one. Haifa for another.”

“Haifa. We have a Navy presence there. Did we lose assets in the attack?”

Radcliffe nodded. “I have people looking into that, Mr. President.”

The president moved his gaze from the ceiling to the men in his bedroom. “So their guidance system was working?”

Grundy and Radcliffe looked at Jeremy. “Yes, sir. I've not seen flight tracks. I understand that one of our subs was monitoring the area and caught the attack on radar. They might be able to tell us if the missiles auto corrected during flight. If so—”

“Then the Syrians have found a way to get their electronics to work. I was led to believe that part of the world was dark like everywhere else.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeremy said. “That was my understanding too.”

Barlow thought for a moment. “Has Israel retaliated?”

“Not yet, sir,” Radcliffe said. “They've had enough time to do so. We think their systems are still down.”

“The Syrians'
should
still be down.” Barlow grimaced but in a manner different than Jeremy had seen before. This time it was the news that gave him pain. “What I wouldn't give for a spy satellite.” Then a thought hit him, and his face paled. “The missiles—tell me they were conventional and not nuclear.”

“Syria doesn't have nuclear warheads, sir,” Grundy said.

“Iran does. They bought some, and they've built a few with stolen uranium. Only a handful of people know that.”

Jeremy hadn't been one of the handful. The news shocked him.

“They're taking advantage of Israel's weakness.” Barlow pulled at his lower lip, thinking. “Admiral Radcliffe, what can we do to protect Israel?”

Radcliffe looked at the floor. “Not much, sir. Our sub has a limited supply of Tomahawks onboard. We could rain down some pain on Syria, and I think we should before they get any more ideas.”

“I disagree with the admiral.” Grundy took one step closer to the bed. “Our workable munitions are in short supply. Launching an attack from the sub would make it a target. As it is, she's spending more time near the surface than we like so we can monitor the area, and that's pretty limited. We're great with electronic surveillance, but there are very few electronics to surveil.”

“Apparently the Syrians have more than we assumed.”

“Yes, sir, but even that isn't certain. A missile is primarily a mechanical device. It can fly without guidance. Maybe they got lucky.”

“Not likely,” Radcliffe said. “They hit key cities. Sure, a few hit smaller towns. At least that's what the people on the ground are telling us. As you can imagine, news from the ground is slow. A spare radio from the sub was transferred to one of our ships in the Haifa port. There's been no word.”

“We have to assume that one or more of our ships have been struck. That makes this an attack on the United States.”

“What is our field readiness, Admiral?” Barlow looked at Radcliffe.

“There or in general, sir?”

“There.”

“Not good. We have some communication through rebuilt radios, but that is limited. Moving troops is still slow. We have some transportation up and running, but we don't have enough to move a large number of soldiers. We have very few working naval vessels. The same can be said for the enemy.”