Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (195 page)

“Indeed. Tell me more.”

“The key to America is this Ryan fellow. Is that not obvious?”

“THE KEY TO changing America is a constitutional convention,” Ernie Brown said, after long days of silent contemplation. Pete Holbrook was flipping the controller on his slide projector. He’d shot three rolls of film of the Capitol building, and a few more of other buildings like the White House, unable completely to avoid being the tourist. He grumbled, seeing that one of the slides was in the caddie upside-down. This idea had gestated long enough, and the result wasn’t all that impressive.

“We’ve talked about that for a long time,” Holbrook agreed as he lifted the caddie off the projector. “But how do you—”

“Force it? Easy. If there’s no President and no way to select one within the Constitution, then
something
has to happen, doesn’t it?”

“Kill the President?” Pete snorted.
“Which
one?”

There was the problem. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure that one out. Take out Ryan, and Kealty would step in. Take out Kealty, and Ryan was in like Flynn. It would be tough enough now. Both men remembered all the security they’d seen at the White House. Kill either one, and the American SS would put a wall around the one who was left that you’d need a nuke to breach. The Mountain Men didn’t have any of those. They preferred traditional American weapons, like rifles. Even those had their limitations. The South Lawn of the White House was thoroughly forested with trees, and, they’d noticed, also shielded by skillfully concealed earthen berms. Just seeing the White House was possible down only one visual avenue, past the fountain at the building itself. The surrounding buildings were all government-owned, and atop them would always be people with binoculars—and rifles. The American SS were determined to keep the people away from “their” President, the servant of the people, whose guards didn’t trust the people at all. But if the man who lived in that house was really one of the people, there would have been no need, would there? Once Teddy Roosevelt had thrown open the doors and shaken hands with ordinary citizens for four whole hours. No way
that
would happen anymore!

“Both at once. The way I figure, Ryan will be the hard target, right?” Brown asked. “I mean, he’s
there
where most of the protection is. Kealty has to move around a lot, talking to the newspaper pukes, and he won’t be as well protected, will he?”

Holbook replaced the slide caddie. “Okay, that makes sense.”

“So, if we figure a way to do Ryan, taking Kealty out will be much easier to do on the fly.” Brown took the cellular phone out of his pocket. “Easy to coordinate.”

“Keep going.”

“It means getting a fix on his schedule, learning his routine, and picking our time.”

“Expensive,” Holbrook observed, flipping to the next slide. It was one so often taken by so many people, from the top of the Washington Monument, the tiny north window, looking down on the White House. Ernie Brown had taken one, too, and had the print blown up to poster size in the local photo shop. Then he’d stared at it for hours. Then he’d gotten a map and checked the scale. Then he’d done some rough calculations.

“The expensive part’s buying the cement truck, and renting a place not too far out of town.”

“What?”

“I know what the spot is, Pete. And I know how to bring it off. Just a matter of picking the time.”

SHE WOULDN’T LIVE through the night, Moudi decided. Her eyes were open now. What they saw was anyone’s guess. Finally, mercifully, she was beyond pain. That happened. He’d seen it before, with cancer patients, mostly, and it was always the harbinger of death. His knowledge of neurology was insufficient to understand the reason for it. Maybe the electro-chemical pathways got overloaded, or maybe there was some editing function in the brain. The body knew what was happening, that the time for battle had ended, and since the nervous system reported pain mainly as a warning system, when the time for warning was past, so was the time for pain. Or maybe it was all his imagination. Possibly her body was simply too damaged to react to anything. Certainly the intra-ocular bleeding had her blind. The last blood line had fallen out, so damaged were her veins now, and she was bleeding from that point in addition to so many others. Only the morphine drip remained, held in place with tape. The heart was being starved of blood, and trying ever harder to pump what diminished supply it had left, it was exhausting itself.

Jean Baptiste still made noises—difficult to hear through the Racal suit—the occasional whimper, and the timing of them made the physician wonder if they might be prayers. They probably were, he decided. Robbed of sanity along with her life, the one thing that remained in her would be the endless hours of prayer, the discipline which had ruled her life, and she’d return to that in her madness because her mind had nowhere else to go. The patient cleared her throat, choking, really, but then murmuring more clearly, and Moudi leaned his head down to listen.

“...—ther of God, pray for us sinners ...”

Oh, that one.
Yes, it would have to be her favorite prayer.

“Fight no more, lady,” Moudi told her. “It is your time. Fight no more.”

The eyes changed. Even though she could not see, the head turned and she stared at him. It was a mechanical reflex, the physician knew. Blind or not, years of practice told the muscles what to do. The face instinctively turned to a source of noise, and the eyes—the muscles still worked—focused in the direction of interest.

“Dr. Moudi? Are you there?” The words came slowly, and not all that clearly, but understandable even so.

“Yes, Sister. I am here.” He touched her hand automatically, then was dumbfounded.
She was
still
lucid?

“Thank you for ... helping me. I will pray for you.”

She would.
He knew that. He patted her hand again, and with the other increased the morphine drip. Enough was enough. They could put no more blood into her to be polluted with the virus strands. He looked around the room. Both army medics were sitting in the corner, quite content to let the doctor stand with the patient. He walked over to them and pointed to one.

“Tell the director—soon.”

“At once.” The man was very pleased to leave the room. Moudi counted to ten before speaking to the other.

“Fresh gloves, please.” He held up his hands to show that he didn’t like touching her either. That medic left, too. Moudi figured he had a minute or so.

The medication tray in the corner had what he needed. He took a 20cc needle from its holder and stuck it into the vial of morphine, pulling in enough to fill the plastic cylinder completely. Then he returned to the bedside, pulled the plastic sheet back and looked for ... there. The back of her left hand. He took it in his and slid the needle in, immediately pushing down the plunger.

“To help you sleep,” he told her, moving back across the room. He didn’t look to see if she responded to his words or not. The needle went into the red-plastic sharps container, and by the time the medic came back with new gloves, everything was as before.

“Here.”

Moudi nodded and stripped the overgloves off into their disposal container, replacing them with a new set. Back at the bedside, he watched the blue eyes close for the last time. The EKG display showed her heart rate at just over one-forty, the spiky lines shorter than they should have been, and irregularly spaced. Just a matter of time now. She was probably praying in her sleep, he thought, dreaming prayers. Well, at least he could be sure now that she was in no pain. The morphine would be well into her diminishing blood supply now, the chemical molecules finding their way to the brain, fitting into the receptors, and there releasing dopamine, which would tell the nervous system ... yes.

Her chest rose and fell with the labored respiration. There was a pause, almost like a hiccup, and the breathing restarted, but irregularly now, and the flow of oxygen to the bloodstream was now diminishing. The heart rate changed, becoming yet more rapid. Then respiration ceased. The heart still didn’t stop at once, so strong it was, so valiant, the doctor thought sadly, admiring this undying part of a person already dead, but that couldn’t last long, and with a few final traces on the screen, it, too, ceased to function. The EKG machine began making a steady alarm tone. Moudi reached up and shut it off. He turned to see the medics sharing a look of relief.

“So soon?” the director asked, coming into the room and seeing the flat, silent line on the EKG readout.

“The heart. Internal bleeding.” Moudi didn’t have to say anything else.

“I see. We are ready, then?”

“Correct, Doctor.”

The director motioned to the medics, who had one last job to do. One of them bundled up the plastic sheeting to contain drips. The other disconnected the last IV and the electronic EKG leads. This was done expeditiously, and when the former patient was wrapped like a piece of slaughtered meat, the locks on the wheels were kicked loose, and the two soldiers wheeled her out the door. They would return to clean the room so thoroughly as to make sure that nothing could live on the walls, floor, or ceiling.

Moudi and the director followed them to “Post,” a room in the same confined area behind the double doors. Here was an autopsy table made of smooth, cold stainless steel. They wheeled the treatment bed beside it, uncovering the body and rolling it to a facedown position on the steel, while the doctors observed from the corner, each donning surgical gowns over his protective suit—more from habit than necessity; some habits are just that. Next the plastic sheets were lifted, held by the edges to form a U shape that allowed the accumulated blood to be poured into a container. About half a liter, the doctors estimated. The sheets were carefully carried to a large bin. The medics stuffed them in and left the room, wheeling the bin with them, off to the incinerator. Nervous as they were, it didn’t appear that they’d spilled a drop anywhere.

“Very well.” The director pressed a button and the table elevated from the far end. Out of long-standing professionalism, he touched his fingertips to the left carotid artery to make sure there was no pulse, then to the right, where again there was none. When the body was at a twenty-degree angle, he took a large scalpel and cut both arteries, along with the parallel jugular veins. Blood poured out onto the table, pulled by gravity out of the body, channeled into grooves leading in turn to a drain, and over the next several minutes four liters of blood were captured in a plastic container. The body went pale so quickly, Moudi saw. Moments earlier, the skin had been mottled red and purple. It seemed to fade before his eyes, or perhaps it was just imagination. A laboratory technician came to collect the blood container, which he placed on a small wheeled cart. Nobody wanted to carry something like that, even for a short distance.

“I’ve never posted an Ebola victim,” the director observed. Not that this was a proper postmortem examination. For all the care the director had just shown for the patient’s departed humanity, bleeding her out like that, he might have slaughtered a lamb.

They still had to be careful, however. In cases like this, only one pair of hands worked within the surgical field, and Moudi let the director do that, as he made rough, wide incisions. Stainless-steel retractors pulled back the flaps of skin and muscle. Moudi handled those, his eyes locked on the scalpel in the director’s gloved hands. In another minute, the left kidney was fully exposed. They waited for the medical corpsmen to return. One of them set a tray on the table next to the cadaver. Moudi was revolted by what he saw next. One effect of the Ebola virus and its disease process was to break down tissue. The exposed kidney was half liquefied, and when the director reached in to remove it, the organ actually broke—pulled itself apart into two pieces like a horrid red-brown pudding. The director clucked at himself with annoyance. He’d known what to expect, but forgotten even so.

“Remarkable what happens to the organs, isn’t it?”

“Expect the same from the liver, but the spleen ”

“Yes, I know. The spleen will be like a brick. Watch your hands, Moudi,” the director warned. He lifted a fresh retractor—the instrument was shaped rather like a scoop—to remove the remaining kidney fragment. This went onto the tray. He nodded, and the medic took it off to the lab. The right kidney went more smoothly. At the director’s insistence, after all the muscle and blood vessels were disconnected, both doctors used their hands to remove it, and this one stayed reasonably intact—until it landed on the tray. There the organ deformed and split open. The only good thing about it was that the softness of the tissue would not compromise the integrity of their doubled gloves. That fact didn’t prevent both doctors from cringing.

“Here!” The director flicked his hand for the orderlies to approach. “Turn it over.”

The medics did so, one grasping the shoulders, and the other the knees, flipping the body over as briskly as they could. That caused blood and some tissue to spatter on their cloth gowns. The orderlies pulled back, keeping as far away as possible.

“I want the liver and spleen, that’s all,” the director told Moudi, looking up. He turned to the orderlies. “Then you will wrap the body and remove it to the incinerator. This room will then be disinfected thoroughly.”

Sister Jean Baptiste’s eyes were open, as sightless now as they had been thirty minutes earlier. The doctor took a cloth and covered the face, murmuring a prayer for her soul which the director heard.

“Yes, Moudi, she is doubtless in Paradise. Now, shall we continue?” he asked brusquely. He made the usual Y-shaped incision to open the thorax, deep and crude as before, peeling back the layers quickly, more like a meat-cutter than a physician. What they saw there even shocked the director. “How did she live so long like this ... ?” the man breathed.

Moudi thought back to his medical-school days, remembering a life-sized plastic model of the human body in his first anatomy class. It was as though someone had taken the model and poured in a bucket of powerful solvent. Every exposed organ was misshapen. The surface tissue layer on most of them was ... dissolved. The abdomen was a sea of black blood. All they’d put in, Moudi thought ... not even half of it had leaked out. Amazing.