Jackson sighed. That was no surprise. He was still a murder suspect who had been found surrounded by dead terrorists. He was sure he'd need to answer a lot of questions.
"Send them in" said Jackson as he shifted in his bed, the stitches in his chest pulling painfully as he did so. It was no wonder he wasn't handcuffed. There was no way he was going anywhere.
Jackson sat up and pushed his head into the soft pillows that cradled his matted auburn hair. He didn't have to wait long.
A tall and burly uniformed police officer stepped into the room moments later. He was followed closely by a shorter and much fitter man in a suit. Both were serious as they approached Jackson's bedside.
The police officer led off with introductions. "Good morning, Mr. Pike. My name is Officer Jimmy Howe. I'm an investigator with the Sumner Police Department. I've been assigned to the murder case of your ex-wife Leigh and daughter Clementine."
The man in the dark suit was quiet for a moment as Jackson nodded. "My name," he said after a brief pause. "Is Agent Mulberry. I'm the special agent in charge of investigating the terror plot that was discovered last night."
Jackson nodded once more. "Good morning, gentlemen." He replied weakly. His voice was calm. Jackson wasn't sure if that was due to the drugs that pumped through his veins or the mental and physical exhaustion of the past few days.
The police officer began first. "First of all, Mr. Pike. I'd like to assure you that you are no longer a suspect in the murders of your ex wife and daughter. You were here at the hospital at the time that the coroner determined to be their times of death."
The other man interjected. "We are very sorry for your loss, Mr. Pike. But we need to know what happened."
Jackson understood. He had spent enough time in Special Operations to know what these men were looking for. Intelligence.
He nodded. They needed to know whether a threat still existed.
He took a painful deep breath before beginning to recount his tale of the last few days. He needed to pause frequently as he did so, both to regain his breath and to ensure he wasn't implicating himself or Mike in any criminal acts.
He spoke for close to twenty minutes, his chest aching as he summoned the strength from deep within to recount his tale. During his story, the two investigators took feverish notes and nodded knowingly, occasionally stopping him to ask a question.
Jackson told the men almost everything.
He left out the part about the two men he had killed at the Carmike headquarters building.
He also neglected to mention Mike's presence. According to Jackson, he'd borrowed the vehicle they'd found a half mile from the shipping and receiving facility from Mike earlier in the day and had Mike place an emergency call at a preordained time.
According to the official report, that would be the extent of Mike's involvement.
Jackson knew Mike wouldn't like the coming media attention, and as much as he hated authority of any kind, he was sure his old friend and teammate would appreciate not speaking to law enforcement.
Jackson peered up at the men as he finished recounting the past thirty six hours of his life.
He felt as if he had done a good job of summing up in his own words the chain of events that had led him from his couch on a Friday afternoon to a murdered family, twelve dead terrorists, and two subsequent nights in the hospital.
It sounded outlandish to Jackson as he recounted the tale.
But it wasn't. It had all happened. His family was dead, and the Carmike Special Security Group was at the heart of the plot.
As he finished his story he rested his head back on the soft hospital pillow. The two officers seemed to be satisfied with his story, and nodded in thanks.
"Thank you, Mr. Pike." Said Mulberry, before stepping from the room.
Howe paused. He looked at Jackson for a moment.
"That's an amazing story, Mr. Pike. And the most incredible part is that I actually believe you. I'm sorry about your family. Get some rest. I'll come by later to tell you how the investigation progresses."
Chapter 47:
07:00 AM- Sunday, September 10th
Sumner, VA
Doctor Sanders' phone began to ring insistently as he sat, his head cradled in his hands within the cafeteria of Memorial Hospital.
He was staring intently at the television that was tuned to CNN. So was everyone else in the room.
He tore his eyes away finally and stood up, stepping from the room. He knew who was calling without looking.
"Hello, darling." He said, mustering as much cheer in his voice as he could after a twenty four hour shift and the amazing events of yesterday evening.
His wife had always been supportive, but she'd never gotten used to the hours.
Somehow, she always seemed to think that it would get better, that with each progressive year since medical school, he'd get closer to a nine to five schedule. But that wasn't what Sanders had signed up for, and she knew it.
He spoke quietly, stepping from the cafeteria, Styrofoam cup of coffee in hand.
"I'm sorry I didn't call last night. One of my former patients came in with a gunshot wound. It's truly an amazing story. In fact, if you turn on the news, you'll likely hear all about it."
Sanders himself had been watching the news all morning.
He turned to face the cafeteria from the large doorway that led to the hospital's main corridor. From here, he could still see the aerial shots of the shipping and receiving facility where last night's events had transpired.
Although no media had been allowed into the facility yet, helicopters had circled for the better part of the morning, their telephoto lenses panning across facility and the twelve large trucks parked in the lot.
Sanders realized he was becoming distracted again.
His wife had said something that he hadn't caught. He did his best to cover his distraction.
"Yes dear. I love you, but I've got to go now." He said as he continued, his heavy footsteps falling on the marble floor of the hospital as he stepped towards the emergency department.
Throughout the hospital, all eyes were fixed on the nearest television. And it wasn't just the doctors and nurses sitting in the cafeteria eating breakfast before their shift that were transfixed by the story. The televisions in the patient's rooms, the televisions in the waiting rooms, all tuned to the network channels, and all covering the same story.
The terror plot was front page, international news.
And the hero of the story was a patient in this hospital.
Sanders paused for a moment in the hall before downing what was left of his black coffee and feigning a smile. He showed his identification badge to the two uniformed officers who stood before Jackson Pike's hospital room before pushing open the heavy hospital door and stepping through.
The patient was asleep, which was no surprise given the nature and severity of his wounds.
Sanders eyed the wounded Pike and glanced towards his nurse, who was adjusting the clear bag of saline solution which flowed into the vein of his right arm. "Good morning again, Marie."
She turned her head and glanced towards the doctor. They were two of the only staff who knew themselves to be treating a man who had foiled one of the largest terrorist plots in American history.
"Good morning, Doctor Sanders." She nodded towards the television, which was itself tuned to CNN International.
"Unbelievable, isn't it?" She asked, as she picked up Jackson's chart and began to make diligent notes of his vital signs.
They both turned to face the glowing screen of the television, their eyes turned upward towards the device in anticipation. It truly was an amazing story.
Information was constantly flowing in to the press from various sources. But, from what Marie and Doctor Sanders could put together, it seems that on Friday afternoon, their patient had stumbled across a robbery in progress.
A terrorist organization that many of the international press organizations believed to be associated
with the Iranian government had robbed a massive chemical warehouse near Sumner sometime on Friday afternoon, killing a security guard and burning the facility to the ground in the process.
After witnessing the crimes, their patient had made a run for it, and somehow escaped the murderers, but not before wrecking his motorcycle in the nearby Sumner River and sustaining a severe head injury.
That had been the first night they had met him.
From there, the story became tragic. The terrorists couldn't risk leaving any witnesses, so they had apparently attempted to track Jackson. They had been led to his ex-wife's home, where they killed his ex-wife and daughter and attempted to frame him for the crime.
Jackson had eluded capture by the terrorists and the police and had somehow tracked down the murderers. While a wanted man, he'd had a friend call the authorities from a prepaid cell phone and attempted to infiltrate the facility.
He had been taken prisoner.
But somehow, he'd escaped and killed eight highly trained terrorists. In the process, he'd sustained a nearly fatal gunshot wound to the chest before Sumner SWAT Team snipers had killed the remaining four terrorists.
Sanders and Marie looked at one another as the news anchor continued to recount the story.
"Amazing." Sanders said, looking at their wounded patient in awe.
Jackson's name had not yet been released to the press. But they were already calling him a real American hero.
It was rumored that the President of the United States was going to nominate him for the Presidential Medal of Freedom in a press briefing later this morning.
The television finally cut away from the aerial shots of the shipping and receiving facility.
A financial analyst now covered a closely related story. The fact that the chemicals used in constructing the terrorists' weapons had been stolen from a Carmike Industries facility and that the twelve men had chosen a second Carmike Industries facility as their staging area had not escaped the notice of the press.
When the press had descended upon the home of Carmike Industries' defacto spokesman, Steve Yaeger, however, it was revealed that he had been discovered dead on his sofa in an apparent suicide.
And so the analysts were left to wonder aloud whether Carmike Industries' highly profitable chemical storage and distribution business would survive and whether the company would be able to explain their enormous security lapses to a likely congressional inquiry.
With the CFO dead, and the CEO at a conference in Aruba, the analyst doubted that the stock would rebound from the massive hit it was sure to take on Monday morning.
Dr. Sanders turned to face Jackson's nurse. "Amazing. Has he said anything else?"
Marie took a deep sharp breath. "Not since he woke up and spoke to the investigators this morning."
They both shook their heads, eyeing their patient.
The television cast a flickering light across the dimly lit hospital room, the newscaster's voice breaking the quiet monotony of the medical equipment that monitored Jackson's pulse, blood oxygen levels and blood pressure.
The young blonde news anchor's voice increased in pace, the tone heightened and keyed in. Sanders and the nurse turned to face the flickering black television on the opposite wall.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," she said to her guest. "We'll be right back with you, but I'm getting word that the White House Press Secretary would like to make a statement."
The camera shifted to a young brown haired press secretary, replete in his pinstripe suit, standing behind a podium in the White House briefing room.
He paused, nodding. Behind the young White House spokesman stood the familiar presidential seal and the American flag.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, unfortunately, the President was unavailable for comment. He is currently en route to Europe on Air Force One to meet with the German Chancellor regarding our most recent trade agreement. Unfortunately the video link from the onboard command center has malfunctioned. You will no doubt be hearing from the President upon his landing in Berlin. In the mean time, I have the great pleasure of introducing the Vice President of the United States, Vice President Colgan."
The men and women of the press corps, stood simultaneously out of respect for the Vice President as the tall, thin politician stepped into the room, his gray hair bobbing as he nodded and approached the dark wood podium of the White House briefing room.
"Thank you," he said, "please be seated."
"Good morning. The President has asked me to address the press, the nation and the world this morning." Colgan paused while he cleared his throat.
Jackson's heart rate monitor began to beep with a new insistence, his blood pressure skyrocketing as he drifted in and out of sleep.
Sanders turned, his gaze fixated now on Jackson's heart rate monitor. "Marie, please administer additional propofol. The patient is clearly in some distress, and we'll need to keep him relaxed." He shook his head.
Marie walked to the patient's intravenous drip and administered an injection of propofol into the small clear plastic bag. Jackson moaned weakly, shaking his head in vain as the medication began to pump through his bloodstream. His moaning ceased as the medication flowed, his heart rate and blood pressure normalizing rapidly.
"What do you suppose that was all about?" Marie asked the Doctor, turning back towards the television.
"I have no idea. Maybe he overheard some of the story on TV. After the Vice President's speech, we'll shut it off. I'd hate for that to happen again."
The Vice President's deep and hollow baritone echoed through the almost empty hospital room and the world as he read the President's remarks.
"Last night, the largest terrorist plot since the attacks of September 11th, 2001 was foiled. Twelve suspected terrorists were killed, and twelve improvised weapons of mass destruction were rendered inert. Information is still flowing in from multiple sources. What we do know is that this plot was foiled by the strength, bravery and sacrifice of an American hero."
The Doctor and Marie glanced at one another as the Vice President paused. "We have determined it best to keep the identity of this hero a secret until the investigation into this attempted attack is complete."
Colgan took a deep breath. "Initial reports have suggested that this mission may have been sanctioned or ordered by Tehran and the Iranian government. We can neither confirm nor deny those allegations at this time. But rest assured, we will bring to justice those who have attempted this grievous crime against our nation. That, I promise you."
"This concludes the President's remarks. As more information on this attempted attack is revealed, you can expect to hear from this administration. Are there any questions?"
The room was silent for a moment. Then, every hand shot up simultaneously, the din of the crowd of reporters was deafening in the small briefing room.
The Vice President pointed at the closest reporter. "Mr. Vice President," he panted breathlessly as he stood, "It's been leaked that the terrorists stole the chemicals planned to be used in the attacks from a Carmike Industries facility. They were discovered holed up in another Carmike Industries property. Is this a coincidence?"
The Vice President paused, his normally pale face turning a shade of red, his deep voice quickening. "That these men would choose to victimize an American corporation is no surprise. As to why the men chose Carmike Industries, as the former CEO, I can only assume it is because of the key role Carmike Industries has played in defense contracting and weapons manufacture over the last century."
Vice President Colgan paused, smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles in his pin striped suit.
"The press secretary will answer any follow on questions," he said as he shifted uncomfortably behind the dark wood of the Presidential podium before stepping from the stage and through the wide door on the left side of the room.
Chapter 48:
09:45 AM- Sunday, September 10th
Sumner, VA
The searing pain had been replaced with a dul
l ache that greeted Jackson as he opened his eyes, attuned to soft voices that echoed in the background of his mind. He peered through a partially open eye before allowing himself to shift upward in his hospital bed.
His palms pressed against the white sheets as he tried to keep his wounded back and shoulder from rubbing against the itchy white sheet as he shifted to a sitting position in his hospital bed.
"Good morning, Mr. Pike." Jimmy Howe's voice was tired.
Jackson tried to smile, but he felt sure his facial expression was more of a grimace. Next to Howe, who still wore the same mud stained uniform and baseball cap and sipped insistently on a large cup of coffee, stood the FBI agent from this morning.
His name was Mulberry. Special Agent Mulberry, if Jackson remembered correctly.
Jackson summoned upon his strength and replied, his breath somewhat wheezy as his punctured lung tried to push air through his vocal cords and make a useful sound. "Good morning Officer Howe, Agent Mulberry."
Howe spoke first. "Mr. Pike, I wanted to inform you as to where we stand on our investigation."
Jackson nodded weakly.
"Clearly, the investigation is still in its early stages." Mulberry stated, looking around the hospital room. He cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, so far we have been unable to tie anyone or anything associated with Carmike Industries to any of the events of last night."
Jimmy Howe spoke now, his voice projecting over the soft beeps of Jackson's heart rate monitor. "There is obviously no physical evidence available at Carmike Chemical. It's estimated that the fire burned at upwards of 1,000 degrees. It incinerated not only all of the chemicals but the facility itself."
"Now, we were able to trace the source of the chemicals from the shipping and receiving facility, and they were definitely from the Carmike Chemical facility, however, management is stating that the chemicals were stolen, and since there is no security footage available legally we have no recourse to accuse the company of involvement."
Jackson sighed weakly, nodding.
Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) Page 17
