The Value Of Valor - KJ3

by Lynn Ames

  “Affirmative.” He removed a kit containing a syringe and a bottle of clear liquid from the pocket behind the passenger seat. As the doctor struggled, the agent pushed up the sleeve of his lab coat and jabbed the needle into his arm. The doctor convulsed for several seconds before going limp.

  “Okay,” the agent said to the driver. “Let’s take the doctor to Rock Creek Park.”

  When they reached their destination, the driver and the agent dumped the body in the woods along with the syringe, which had been wiped clean of fingerprints.

  Back at the hospital, Dr. Jonathan Englert slid nonchalantly into the position of lead physician to the president. He stood by the door awaiting the arrival of the presidential ambulance. When someone asked him what had happened to Dr. Conrad, he shrugged. “I don’t know. He just asked me to relieve him.” The nurse to his right winked.

  Seconds later, the ambulance pulled to a screeching halt outside the emergency entrance. Paramedics bearing the gurney jumped out, yelling out as they went the events that had transpired, the lack of vital signs, and that they had been following advanced cardiac life support protocols.

  “Patient is unresponsive.”

  “Patient is in acute respiratory failure and has been connected to a portable ventilator.”

  Dr. Englert shouted instructions as the gurney was wheeled down the hall and into a special wing of the hospital. The place was pure bedlam.

  When the president had been shifted from the gurney to a treatment table, Dr. Englert ordered all non-essential personnel to clear the room.

  Three nurses and two other doctors remained, along with an ER

  technician and the Viper, as the president was connected to an EKG

  monitor. The monitor registered no activity.

  Dr. Englert ordered another round of sodium bicarbonate and epinephrine. When that failed, he charged the prearranged faulty defibrillator paddles and attempted to revive the president. His efforts, repeated several times, yielded no success. After twenty-five minutes in which all manner of resuscitation was attempted, Dr. Englert pronounced the president dead. He ordered the machines disconnected, exited the room, and prepared for the unhappy task of informing the first lady of the president’s death from acute respiratory and cardiac failure.

  The Value of Valor

  CHAPTER TEN

  ow is he? What’s going on? Where’s Ben?” Mimi Hyland

  “H was frantic, her eyes wild.

  “I’m Dr. Englert, ma’am. Dr. Conrad got called away unexpectedly.”

  Englert wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. “I regret to inform you that your husband—the president—is dead.”

  “Wha—” It couldn’t be. Charlie was in great shape. “No. I don’t believe you. Where’s Ben? I want to see Ben.” Tears flowed freely down her cheeks. She lunged forward, pounding the doctor in the chest with her fists.

  Englert backed up a step, surprised by the first lady’s outburst and unsure what to do next.

  The Viper stepped in between her and the doctor, catching her fists in midair as she continued to sob hysterically.

  She stopped, suddenly aware of her position and her surroundings.

  Charlie would be appalled. She stood up straight and removed a tissue from her purse, dabbing at her eyes and blowing her nose. Despite the fact that she felt as if her insides were being ripped out, she lifted her chin, looking the doctor directly in the eye.

  “I apologize. As you can imagine, this comes as a great shock to me.”

  “I’m sure it does, ma’am.”

  “I’d like to see my husband now.”

  A look of panic flitted across the doctor’s face. They had not planned for this. There wasn’t time. He silently calculated the number of minutes that had passed since he had declared the president dead. If he didn’t get the president back on a ventilator within the next two minutes, the man could be permanently brain damaged.

  The Viper spoke. “Ma’am, it is against protocol, but I think everyone would understand if we gave you an opportunity to see your husband.”

  He met the doctor’s eyes over the first lady’s head.

  “Yes, yes, of course. If you’ll just give me a minute.”

  Englert hustled back through the door, grabbing the nurse who had assisted him. “Put him on a portable ventilator for two minutes.”

  “But…”

  Lynn Ames

  “Do it now. Then remove the ventilator and cover him again with the sheet.”

  The Viper waited outside the treatment room with the first lady while Englert and the nurse worked frantically inside.

  “What’s taking so long?” the first lady asked, just as the door swung open.

  “I’m sorry for the delay. Right this way, ma’am.” The doctor escorted Mrs. Hyland into the room where her husband lay covered by a white sheet. All the Secret Service agents present snapped to attention.

  When he reached the hospital bed, the doctor turned to the first lady.

  “Are you ready?”

  She sucked in a deep breath. “Doctor, I will never be ready for this, but I would never forgive myself if I didn’t say goodbye to the man I will always—” Her voice faltered. “Always love.”

  Dr. Englert pulled back the sheet and stepped aside.

  Mimi looked down at the still, peaceful, pale face of the only man she had ever loved and felt a piece of her soul shatter. “Charlie,” she whispered as she framed his face with her hands.

  The doctor shifted uneasily, afraid beyond words that she would lay her head on his chest and hear his heart beating. Sweat rolled down his back.

  “Ma’am?” One of the Secret Service agents touched her elbow. “I’m sorry, but we really should go.” He did not answer the voice talking into his earpiece, telling him to get her the fuck out of there.

  “Yes,” she sniffed. “Yes, of course.” She looked down one more time, leaned forward, and placed a tender kiss on her husband’s lips. “My love for you will never die.”

  The Secret Service agent hustled her out of the room.

  “This is the Viper,” the agent said into the tiny microphone transmitter on his lapel.

  “What’s your status?” Wayne Grayson’s disembodied voice queried.

  “Everything is a go, the package has been disposed of, and replacement parts have arrived.”

  “Are they working?”

  “Affirmative. The parts are in place, the machines have been shut down for repairs, and we’re ready to switch over to the new system.”

  “Affirmative. Transportation has been arranged. Proceed with the transfer via route one. After that, I advise you to take a mental health day.”

  “Affirmative.”

  The Value of Valor

  Grayson ended the transmission with the Viper and turned to his colleagues. The three of them were standing in a corner of the parking lot behind the Russian Embassy. Wood and L’Andreu were pacing nervously.

  “It’s done.”

  “He’s…?” Wood started to ask.

  “Taking a mental health break,” Grayson broke in quickly.

  “I still say we ought to make it a permanent holiday,” L’Andreu said.

  “No.” Grayson was adamant.

  “Why not?”

  Grayson tried to rein in his temper. “We already have solid information that Hyland knows major pieces of the plot. What we don’t know is who he’s told.”

  “I thought you said Kyle was the problem,” L’Andreu said, inclining his head in the direction of the reception still going on inside.

  “And her contact,” Wood added.

  “Both of them are as good as dead,” Grayson answered. “I’ve got men inside taking care of it even as we speak.”

  “That solves the problem then.”

  “Not necessarily.” Grayson was growing impatient. “It’s quite possible that Hyland might have contacted other foreign leaders, in which case we would have to adjust our strategy. We’ve come too far to fail no
w. We must leave nothing to chance.”

  “Why not just question him now, then ki…” Wood began to ask.

  “Sir?” A breathless voice asked loudly in Grayson’s ear. He held up his hand to Wood and L’Andreu.

  “Go ahead.”

  “She’s running.”

  “What?”

  “We’re in pursuit.”

  “Affirmative,” Grayson growled, dismissing Wood and L’Andreu as he summoned his limousine. “Keep me posted.” He had work to do.

  The Viper returned to the hospital room where the president’s body, guarded by the lead agent’s men, lay completely covered with a sheet once again. He spoke a few quiet words to Dr. Englert, then motioned to several other Secret Service agents standing by to move the president’s body to a portable gurney.

  “We’re going to take the back elevator to the morgue—basement floor.”

  Two agents lined up solemnly alongside the top half of the gurney; two others preceded the wheeled bed as the doors to the treatment suite Lynn Ames

  opened automatically to allow them egress. The Viper brought up the rear.

  The group proceeded quickly through the corridor and into a large elevator at the far end of the hall that carried them to the basement of Bethesda Naval Hospital. Once there, the Viper dismissed the four agents, replacing them with a fresh complement of dark-suited, blank-faced men.

  “Load the body into the ambulance.”

  The men, without comment or visible emotional reaction, did as they were instructed.

  The nondescript ambulance, devoid of windows in the back passenger area, opened to reveal a complicated set of equipment, Dr. Englert, two paramedics, and a nurse—the same one who had been in the emergency room entranceway when the president had been wheeled in.

  “You know what to do,” the Viper said to Englert, before moving around to get into the front passenger seat of the vehicle. Turning to the driver, he said, “No lights, no sirens, no hurry. Take the shortest route to the National Institute of Mental Health, but keep a watch on the mirrors.

  We don’t want any overzealous reporters getting too nosy.”

  “Right, sir.”

  In the back of the ambulance, the doctor and his assistants began their work.

  Englert peeled back the sheet that covered the president’s body.

  “Hook up the IV, stat.” He checked for a pulse, listened to the president’s chest, and pulled back. “Resume ventilation. Right now.”

  Without hydration and ventilation, it would only be a matter of minutes before the pancuronium would cause the president to suffocate.

  The nurse and one of the paramedics worked quickly and efficiently to connect the president to the machine that would breathe for him since he was incapable of doing so for himself. The second paramedic inserted an IV needle in the president’s left arm, secured it, connected the tubing from the IV bag to it, and hung the bag on a pole. Immediately, he opened the valve that would allow a solution of normal saline, five percent dextrose, and a steady drip of the poison to flow. It was this cocktail that would keep the president both alive and incapacitated indefinitely.

  None of the members of the Commission’s elite medical team questioned the orders they had been given. It was simply their job to ensure that the man in their care remained helpless but alive.

  The Viper keyed his microphone. “Everything okay back there?”

  Englert replied via the intercom system. “The patient is stable but unconscious, just as requested.”

  The Value of Valor

  “Very well. We’ll be arriving momentarily. I am told everything is in order. Remember—this needs to proceed like clockwork.”

  “Yes, yes. We’ve all been through enough drills to know exactly how this is supposed to work.”

  “There can be no mistakes. Make sure there aren’t any.” The Viper clicked off his mic.

  The ambulance arrived at a secret entrance to the NIMH facility seconds later, the driver pulling the vehicle into an underground garage, out of sight of any prying eyes. As soon as the vehicle stopped moving, the back doors were flung open. Two paramedics who had been awaiting the arrival of the ambulance assisted in transferring the patient to another gurney while the paramedics who had traveled with the president continued to provide ventilation. The nurse took charge of transitioning the IV to a mobile pole. In less than two minutes, they were inside the building; within five, they had the patient in the medical suite where he would be kept until they received further orders.

  Robert Hawthorne sat in the limo, his palms sweating. He could not fathom that the man across from him could be so cavalier, so matter-of-fact about something as calculating as killing the president of the United States.

  “It would behoove you to wipe that look of shock off your face, Robert. You’re about to be the next vice president of the United States.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “With the president dead, Wheeler will be sworn in as president, leaving a vacancy in the number two position.” Grayson had already decided that Hawthorne did not need to know that the president wasn’t actually dead. The fewer people who knew, the easier it would be to control the situation. “When our boy Wheeler takes the oath, he will nominate you as vice president and rush your approval through the Senate.”

  “What makes you think they’ll comply?”

  “You’re a known quantity. His rationale will be that you are experienced in government and foreign affairs—you’ve served in elective office.”

  “Not all those people were my friends.”

  “True. Regardless, they will confirm you. A smooth, quick transition will provide stability to our government and send a message of solidarity and control to all other nations.”

  “What’s the timetable?”

  “The medical team has just declared the president dead. I suggest you get over to the National Press Club and help Deputy Press Secretary Lynn Ames

  Vendetti with the spin, then have a chat with the soon-to-be new president.”

  Hawthorne was reeling. “Why Vendetti? Where’s Kyle?”

  “The press secretary is presently indisposed.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Never mind,” Grayson snapped. “Just get the players in line and make sure this goes smoothly.” His expression was a cross between a smirk and a sneer. “I’m sure your daughter Emily will appreciate your efforts.”

  Hawthorne felt sick to his stomach. He lurched out of the car, trying his hardest not to vomit on the sidewalk.

  A frazzled Michael Vendetti faced Robert Hawthorne across a desk in a private office at the National Press Club. He had been unable to locate Kate anywhere.

  “I don’t know what to do.” He paced back and forth behind the desk.

  “Since all the press is already gathered here, you need to go out and make a statement, Michael.”

  Vendetti shook his head and shifted his feet uncertainly. “I don’t have anything official, and no one’s authorized me to say anything.”

  “I’m authorizing you,” Hawthorne said through gritted teeth.

  Vendetti looked at him, a dazed expression on his face. “You?”

  “Yes, me.”

  “On what authority?”

  Hawthorne was losing patience. “Listen, you little pissant. I’m about to be named vice president; you’ll do what I say.”

  “You…?”

  “You find that surprising?”

  “No, I-I mean, I don’t know,” he finished weakly. “What am I supposed to tell them?”

  “That President Hyland is dead, that the cause of death is pending, and that Vice President Wheeler will be sworn in as president within the hour.”

  “Shouldn’t I wait for Kate?”

  “There’s no time. We can’t have a power vacuum while you wait for your boss to show up.”

  Vendetti picked up the phone and alerted the press room attendant to tell the assembled reporters that he would be right out t
o make a statement.

  Keith barely caught a glimpse of Kate as she made her escape from the Secret Service agent at the door. Good for you. Go, Kate. Run like the wind.

  The Value of Valor

  He was being dragged forcibly from the room by the other three men.

  They were headed in the general direction of the kitchen. Keith had no illusions; he knew they would torture him to find out what information he had, then they would kill him.

  I’ve got to give Kate and Charlie a fighting chance. He struggled to free his right hand, which was no easy task since his arms were pinned to his sides. He wiggled his fingers until he could reach inside his jacket pocket. With difficulty, he found what he was looking for and wrapped his fingers around it. Good luck, Kate, you’ll need it. He wrenched his arm free with a mighty yank, brought his hand to his mouth, and bit down on the capsule.

  “Hey, grab that arm.”

  “Stop him!”

  “Damn it all to hell.”

  Keith convulsed several times, foam spewing from his mouth, then went completely limp.

  “He’s dead.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. How’re we going to explain this one?”

  “It wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t in charge of his arms.”

  “Shut up. The boss isn’t going to care who had his arms and who had his legs, idiots.”

  “Let’s get him out of here.”

  Keith was dragged unceremoniously the rest of the way through the kitchen and out into the side alley, where his captors conveniently found a wino passed out with a half-empty bottle of booze on his chest.

  Liberating the liquor, they poured generous amounts on Keith’s face and clothes until he reeked of the stuff. They searched his pockets, ripped his jacket and shirt, and removed his tie before leaving him on the dirty ground. Just another dead drunk in D.C.

  Kate ran, heedless of the rain that cascaded against her bare shoulders and mostly bare back, oblivious to the cold droplets as they pooled in the lacy nest created by the plunging neckline of her gown and her strapless bra.

  She fled down the steps of the Russian Embassy on Connecticut Avenue, the heavy door closing briefly behind her, blocking out the noise of the reception still in full swing inside. She slipped through the wrought iron gate and down past the Churchill Hotel.