Patient One (18 page)

“Or in his head,” David agreed. “Whatever the source, he bled enough to give away his position and mine.”

Carolyn poured more peroxide into the wound. “Are they going to try another rescue?”

“Probably,” David said, hoping against hope that his message about the Mogadishu operation got through to the Secret Service. “And soon, I think.”

“What are our chances?”

“Not good.”

Carolyn raised her voice intentionally and spoke in a professional tone. “There’s one area that’s bleeding fairly briskly.”

“Is the blood red or maroon?” David asked.

“Maroon.”

“Then it’s coming from a vein. See if you can put an absorbable suture around it.”

Carolyn opened up a suture kit and placed it on the bed. After donning a pair of surgical gloves, she spread the wound apart to better expose the bleeding site. “Do you want some Xylocaine?”

David shook his head. “Just do it.”

Carolyn expertly ran a suture around the bleeding vein and tied it off. The blood flow stopped immediately. “How would you like me to handle the rest of the wound?”

“Use absorbable sutures on the deeper layers and metal clips on the skin.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to inject some Xylocaine?”

David stared straight ahead without answering. He blanked out the discomfort by thinking about Somalia and the helicopter crash, the pain in his jaw so terrible he wanted to scream and cry and tear his hair out. But he bore the awful pain in silence as they fought their way back to the base. And later, aboard a destroyer, they wouldn’t let him look at himself in the mirror. The disfigurement was that bad. And that was only the beginning of the nightmare.

“All done,” Carolyn said, painting the area with an antiseptic before covering the wound with a thick gauze.

“You’re pretty good at this,” David complimented.

“Six years as an ER nurse does wonders for one’s ability to suture.”

“At University’s ER?”

“No. At L.A. County.”

“What made you come over here?”

“It was closer to home,” she said without going into details.

Carolyn used an alcohol sponge to clean off the blood and dirt high above the sutured wound. There she noticed another large wound at least two inches long, but this one was old and scarred over. She ran her finger along it and felt some nodularity deep within. “God! Where did this one come from?”

“From long ago,” David said vaguely.

“Big secret, eh?”

David hesitated before muttering, “I was in the military.”

Carolyn stared up at him. “Is that how you got the scar on your chin, too?”

David stood and stretched his leg. It hurt like hell, but no blood came through the dressing. He gave Carolyn a long look. He did not want to talk about his past. Moreover, he was raised with the dictum that real men didn’t discuss their pain. They just endured it. Yet he found himself talking about the events that he had hidden away almost twenty years ago.

“It was a helicopter crash in Somalia,” he was saying. “The enemy opened up just as we were taking off. The aircraft caught on fire and we had to jump. I hit the tarmac and shattered my anterior jaw, among other things.”

Carolyn studied his chin and the old scar that ran along it. “They did a pretty fair job of putting it back together.”

“It’s not my chin you see,” David told her. “It’s a plastic one. I had some good people looking after me.”

For a moment Carolyn saw sadness in David’s eyes, but it quickly vanished. “When did all this—?”

David raised a hand, stopping the questions. “Enough about me,” he said, walking around the treatment room and testing his leg. “Let’s talk about you. How did you get to be so good with your hands?”

“I learned to suture in the ER at—”

“No, no,” David interrupted. “Not the suturing. I was referring to the way you removed the clogged filter from the ceiling duct, and the way you repaired the wire that was giving off sparks in the crawlspace. How did you learn to do those things?”

“Out of necessity,” Carolyn answered quietly. “My dad died when I was a teenager, so my mom and I had to fend for ourselves. She was a schoolteacher and didn’t make much, so we had to learn how to fix things around the house. She was all thumbs, and I ended up doing most of the work.” Carolyn looked away and sighed sadly. “Now I have to do everything for her. My mother used to be so bright and active, but all that’s changed. Now she’s slowly withering away with Alzheimer’s. Sometimes she recognizes me and smiles. Other times, she just stares out into space.”

“A nightmare,” David remarked quietly.

“And it’ll be even more of a nightmare if I don’t make it out of here,” Carolyn went on. “Because I’m the only person left in the family to look after her.”

“We’ve all got people on the outside to worry about,” David said in a somber voice, thinking about Kit, his concern for her almost unbearable.
What will my little girl do without me?
he wondered miserably.
Who will be there to protect her?
David thought briefly about the safeguards he had provided for his daughter. There was a two-million-dollar life insurance policy, and Juanita had agreed to serve as her legal guardian. But Kit would still be parentless, all alone in many ways, and scarred for the rest of her life.

Carolyn tried to read his expression and thought she saw a hint of sadness. “Are your parents still alive?”

“Both gone,” David said, coming out of his reverie. “Both killed by terrorists.”

Carolyn’s brow went up. “What!”

David nodded slowly. “My father was a military attaché at the American embassy in Nairobi. My mother was the program director. They were out on a Sunday drive when terrorists blew up their car and killed them instantly. I was a junior in college at the time.”

“You must have been shattered.”

David nodded again. “And angry as hell. I applied for Special Forces the day after I was notified of their deaths.”

“Do you have any family at all?” Carolyn asked.

“A young daughter,” David replied. “And she has nobody in the world but me.”

“How old is she?”

“Eleven.”

Carolyn groaned sympathetically.

“Yeah,” David said, his face closing.
Enough small talk
, he told himself and tested his leg again. He was still limping, but not as much. And the pain seemed less severe.

“How’s the leg?”

“Good,” David said, glancing down and seeing no blood on the dressing. “Let’s hope your sutures hold.”

“They will,” Carolyn assured him. “But it still might be best to wrap an elastic bandage around the dressing.”

David walked over to the supply cabinet and opened the top drawer. On one side were elastic wraps, on the other sterile instruments wrapped in cellophane. There were neat stacks of forceps and hemostats and scalpels. David’s eyes focused in on the scalpels. He casually turned to Carolyn. “Could you step over here for a moment?”

Carolyn came to his side. “What?”

In a barely audible voice, David told her, “I want you to come in closer and block the guard’s line of vision.”

“No problem,” Carolyn said quietly, her body now touching his. She felt the electricity running through her, and knew he sensed it too. They stayed close together, neither wanting to move apart.

“Sometimes, David,” she murmured ever so softly, “you take my breath away.”

“You’ve been doing that to me for a long time,” David murmured back.

“Jesus! What a hell of a time for us to find out!”

“Some people never do.”

Carolyn sighed sadly and rested her head on his shoulder. “‘Better late than never’ sounds kind of empty right now.”

“Don’t give up yet,” David encouraged, touching her left hand. “Slowly drop this arm so the guard can’t see the drawer.” He waited for her to perform the maneuver and added, “Perfect! Hold it there.”

With a single motion, David reached for the scalpel and tried to slip it between the tongue blades and pocket flashlight in the upper pocket of his white coat. But something was blocking its way.

The terrorist at the doorway was suddenly suspicious of what they were doing at the cabinet. He moved in for a closer look.

“Start talking about the patients,” David whispered out of the corner of his mouth. He turned away from the guard and let the scalpel fall into the side pocket of his coat.

“I see where you had to start bretylium in Dr. Warren.”

Carolyn nodded. “He began having a lot of PVCs again, despite the lidocaine.”

“But he still has a normal sinus rhythm. Right?”

Carolyn nodded once more. “Yeah, but I have the awful feeling he’s going to die on us. His color is really bad.”

The guard studied them briefly, then grunted to himself and went back into the doorway. But he stood sideways, so he could keep an eye on them.

“Warren couldn’t look any worse than Marci,” David said. “Her pericardial effusion is getting bigger and bigger, and it’ll soon reduce her cardiac output to zilch.”

“Is there any way to remove some of that fluid?” Carolyn asked.

“Not without a pericardiocentesis,” David replied. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pericardiocentesis tray on the Pavilion, would you?”

Carolyn shook her head. “We’ve had no need for one.”

“Until now.”

They abruptly jerked their heads around, both startled by the sounds of a loud commotion in the corridor. Someone was frantically crying out in Chechen. Then there were return shouts and yells. The terrorist at the door turned and pointed his Uzi at them.

“Stay!” he bellowed.

Carolyn moved in closer to David and whispered, “Do you think it’s a rescue?”

“I don’t know,” David whispered back. “But if you hear shots or an explosion, drop to the floor behind the operating table.”

Now they heard footsteps in the corridor, running toward them. And more yelling.

David took Carolyn’s hand and said, “Be ready to hit the deck.”

Suddenly Aliev appeared in the doorway and waved his weapon at them. “You had better come quickly. Your President is bleeding to death.”

Nineteen

The Vice President closely
studied the diagram of the Beaumont Pavilion projected onto a large wall screen. It showed precise measurements and details of every suite, including the positions of the beds, furniture, and fixtures.

“I don’t like either plan,” Halloway said. “Both place the President at too much risk.”

“Particularly the one that blows a hole in the roof above the President’s suite,” Alderman concurred. “God knows how much debris could come down and crush him.”

“And the plan to come up through the President’s bathroom isn’t a whole lot better,” Halloway went on. “They’d have to blast their way up through thick marble tile.”

“And all those heavy fixtures would probably drop to the floor below,” Alderman added. “The entire bathroom could crash down and clutter up everything. Can you imagine the Secret Service team having to climb up through all that mess? They’d never reach the President in time.”

“They claim they can control the blast and the size of hole it makes,” Halloway argued mildly.

“Are you willing to bet the President’s life on that?” Alderman asked.

“We may have no choice.” Halloway’s gaze went back to the diagram of the President’s suite. There was a distance of twenty feet from the bed to the far side of the bathroom. If the blast hole was small enough, and if half the bedroom didn’t come crashing down, the team would have a chance to get to the President. But not much of a chance, she had to admit. And what about Merrill’s family?
They would probably die
,
and the President would never forgive us for saving him at the expense of his wife and daughter
.

At length she said, “I think we might be forced to go with the second plan.”

There were loud murmurs and some grumbling at the conference table. Several members of the council were shaking their heads.

“If anyone has a better idea, let’s have it,” Halloway said sharply and waited for a response.

The room quieted. No one offered an alternative way to rescue the President. All eyes went to Ellen Halloway as the council members awaited her final decision. The digital clock clicked off another minute.

“Madam Vice President, you must leave the option to negotiate open,” Alderman counseled. “If we move quickly we can send out orders to have those Chechen prisoners on transport planes within the hour.”

Halloway shook her head. “The terrorists will just keep asking for more and more, and you know it. Releasing those prisoners will not save John Merrill’s life.”

“But it will buy us time to think our way out of this dreadful mess,” Alderman argued.

Halloway hesitated, feeling caught between a rock and a hard place. All of her options were faulty and dangerous, with far-reaching consequences that would go on and on. Terrible consequences!
What would you do, John Merrill? What would you do if you were in my place?
She could sense the council’s eyes on her, waiting for a decision. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Is Prime Minister Sergei Roskovich in charge of Russia now?”

“Yes,” Alderman answered. “In the absence of their President, the Prime Minister assumes power.”

“A tough customer,” Halloway said, more to herself than to the others. She recalled Roskovich from a state visit to Moscow a few years back. He was a short, slender man with tight lips and cold, dark eyes. Before the breakup of the Soviet Union, he was reputed to be the second most powerful person in the KGB.

“Double tough,” Alderman emphasized. “Roskovich is a real hard-liner.”

“He won’t budge an inch,” Toliver agreed with a firm nod. “Not even a millimeter.”

“We’ll see,” Halloway said, undeterred. “Get Roskovich on the line.”

Alderman signaled to an aide standing near the communications room, then said to Halloway, “I know it’s bitter medicine to negotiate, but it may be the best road to take for now.”

“Negotiation is appeasement,” Toliver said harshly.

“It may be the only way to save the President,” Alderman argued.

“There may be another way.” Toliver quickly stood to address the group. “I have a suggestion for us to consider.”

“Let’s hear it,” the Vice President said.

Toliver went over to the diagram on the screen and pointed to the rooms adjoining the suites of the First Family. “The Secretary of State and his wife are situated in suites next to the President and his daughter. We could blast our way into the rooms of the Secretary and his wife, get our team in, and isolate the President and his family from the terrorists. And we wouldn’t have to worry about the size of the hole the explosives made in the floor.”

Halloway considered the proposal, carefully weighing the risks involved. The chance of killing the President was less, but it still existed, no matter how cautious they were. Yet the new plan did move the President farther away from the blasts, and that was its main advantage. She nodded to herself, thinking that Toliver’s plan was the best one offered so far, or at least seemed so on the surface. Finally, Halloway said, “Of course, the Secretary of State and his wife may well end up dead.”

Toliver shrugged, showing little concern. “That would be regrettable. But as you yourself acknowledged earlier, everyone except the President is expendable.”

Halloway nodded slowly. She had said it and she had meant it. There would be no exceptions. She looked over to Alderman and asked, “Arthur, what do you think?”

Alderman thought for a moment, then said, “We’re still talking about a double explosion that could bring down the entire wing, and that would be an unmitigated disaster. But that aside, Martin’s plan has merit.”

“It just might be workable,” Halloway said cautiously. “Workable, but still very dangerous. All it takes is one terrorist near John Merrill, and our President is dead.”

Her eyes went to the digital clock on the wall. The deadline was fifty-eight minutes away.

The communications officer called out, “Madam Vice President, we have the Russian Prime Minister on the line.”

Halloway turned to Alderman. “As I recall, his English is reasonably good.”

“It is when he wants it to be,” Alderman replied.

Halloway pushed a button on the speakerphone. “Prime Minister Roskovich, this is Vice President Halloway. Can you hear me clearly?”

“Yes, Madam Vice President,” he replied in an accented voice.

“I’m calling to inform you that we are doing everything possible to free all the hostages, including your President and Foreign Minister.”

“We know you are, Madam Vice President. Can we offer you any assistance?”

“No, not at this time, thank you.”

There was a pause. Halloway could hear some Russian chatter in the background. The only word she understood was
Moscow
.

Roskovich returned to the line. “If you wish, we can send you some of the sleeping gas we used on terrorists in the Moscow theater. It is much better—how shall I say?—is better perfected than before.”

Halloway recalled the incident. Chechen terrorists had taken over a theater in Moscow and threatened to kill all the hostages unless their demands were met. The Russians responded by releasing sleeping gas into the ventilation system of the theater. But they apparently used too much or misjudged the potency of the gas. In the end all the terrorists were killed, but so were over a hundred innocent people. “Not for now, thank you,” Halloway said.

“Well then, good luck to you and your forces,” Roskovich concluded. “Like you, we will never negotiate with the Chechen terrorists, even if it means losing our President. After all, Madam Vice President, the office of the Presidency is much larger than any one man. Or any one woman,” he added darkly. “We all realize that, don’t we?”

“Yes,” Halloway replied, her voice softer than she wanted. “Much larger.”

“Please keep us informed.”

The phone clicked off.

Halloway leaned back. “He didn’t seem too upset at the prospect of losing his President.”

“You can never read those ex-KGB people,” Alderman told her. “They’re as stone-faced as they come.”

“And he’s not going to budge when it comes to releasing prisoners,” Halloway went on. “That’s why he offered us the sleeping gas, which he knew we’d refuse. He was telling us that no matter how many deaths it takes, they won’t give in to the terrorists.”

“And for good reason,” Toliver said. “They know damn well the terrorists will just use Suslev until he’s of no more use. They realize they can never save their President by negotiating. And negotiation won’t save ours either.”

Halloway reached for a cup of lukewarm coffee and sipped it, thinking about advice that John Merrill gave when it came to making difficult decisions.
Find the core question and answer it. Everything else will fall into place
. There was currently one major question that kept gnawing at her over and over.
Should I negotiate with the Chechen terrorists? Should I exclude the Russians and try to cut a deal? After all, Chechnya’s quest for independence wasn’t really our problem. Why not let the—?

“Madam Vice President,” the communications officer called out as he hurried into the room, “we’re picking up activity at an air base in northern Mexico. Our infrared satellites are detecting heat flares.”

“Which means?” Halloway asked, quickly clearing her mind.

“Their jets are preparing to take off,” the officer replied.

“How many?”

“Four.”

All eyes went to the large video screen. Four red dots were pulsating in an area well north of Mexico City. Gradually the dots began to fade, the images becoming blurry.

“Our radar should pick them up shortly,” the officer said.

A moment later another picture appeared on the screen. It clearly showed the silhouettes of four aircraft heading northward in formation.

“That will be their interceptor fighters,” Toliver said, watching the jets beginning to take a more westerly course. As he continued to study the screen, a shadow of worry crossed his face. “Perhaps we should reconsider calling the President of Mexico.”

Halloway strummed her fingers on the conference table, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of a phone conversation with the President of Mexico. She would have to admit that the U.S. government had sanctioned the killing of Mexican citizens, and he would be furious, regardless of the reason. He would demand the plane land immediately and surrender to Mexican authorities. She wasn’t about to let that happen, and she wasn’t going to tell him about the hostage situation, either. The only advantage of the call would be to try to smooth things over with Mexico, and at this moment that wasn’t very important.

“What do you want to do?” Alderman pressed.

“Plot the course of the Mexican jets and see where they’re headed,” Halloway ordered briskly.

“And what about the
Reagan
, Madam Vice President?” Sanders asked. “They’re still steaming due west with the wind.”

“Have them turn about.”

“And our Hornets?”

“On deck and ready to launch.”