Patient One: A Novel

by Leonard Goldberg

  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 wa
nted. “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.”

  Twenty

  They weren’t able to stem the President’s bleeding. Blood kept gushing up around his nasogastric tube and into the back of his throat. He spat out one mouthful after another.

  David hurriedly aspirated Merrill’s gastric juice into a large syringe. It was colored deep red. The hemorrhaging was not letting up, not even a little. He quickly filled the syringe with ice water and again lavaged the President’s stomach.

  “David,” Carolyn said urgently. “His pressure is down to ninety over sixty, and dropping.”

  “I know, I know.” David wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand, and tried to think of a way to raise the President’s systolic pressure. I’ve got to replenish his intravascular volume or he’ll go into shock, and I’ve got to do it without any blood or plasma. But how? How the hell do I do that? His gaze went up to the IV bag above Merrill’s bed. “Open up the albumin drip all the way.”

  “It is open all the way.” Carolyn called back.

  “Then put your hands around the plastic bag and squeeze it,” David directed. “That’ll push in more albumin faster.”

  Carolyn reached up and applied firm pressure to the plastic bag, using both hands. The albumin-saline solution began running into the President’s arm in a steady stream. Carolyn looked down at Merrill, with his ghostly white color. His gown and sheet and pillowcase were heavily soaked in red. She glanced over to the cardiac monitor and reported, “His pressure is up to eighty-eight.”

  “Keep squeezing,” David urged. “You’ve got to maintain his systolic pressure above ninety.”

  “I’ll try,” Carolyn said, her eyes still on the monitor. “Oh, hell. He’s dropping again.”

  “Squeeze the bag harder!”

  Merrill started gagging and choking as more blood accumulated in the back of his throat. He now had trouble catching his breath. Gasping, he hawked up maroon-colored phlegm and asked, “Dr. Ballineau, am … am I dying?”

  “Not yet,” David replied calmly, beginning another ice-water lavage.

  “I’ll want to know,” Merrill gulped. “I’ll want to say goodbye to my wife.”

  “I understand,” David acknowledged.

  Carolyn sighed to herself, moved by the President’s words. The man was looking at death, and the only thing on his mind was saying goodbye to his wife. I’d like to be loved like that, she thought wistfully. And love someone back the same way. The President suddenly groaned. Carolyn jerked her head down.

  “What’s that, Mr. President?”

  “I’ve got a pain in my side,” Merrill complained.

  “Where?”

  “By my right hip.”

  Carolyn quickly examined the area. Merrill was lying on the sharp edge of a used, wrinkled plastic bag of albumin in saline. She reached for the bag and tossed it aside. “Better?”

  “Much,” Merrill replied, inhaling deeply, his throat now clear. “I think I’m breathing easier, too.”

  “And I think we’re making some progress with the ice-water lavage,” David informed him. He held up the syringe containing the gastric contents he’d just aspirated. Its color was halfway between pink and red.

  “Has the bleeding stopped?” Merrill asked.

  “No,” David answered honestly. “But it’s slowed, and that’s a good start.”

  “Will it begin again?” Merrill asked anxiously.

  “Let’s hope not,” David said. But he knew it was just a matter of time before the hemorrhaging returned. And the next time they wouldn’t be able to stop it, or even slow it. The simple fact was that whatever Factor VIII the President still had in his blood was quickly being used up by his continued bleeding and poor clot formation. It wouldn’t take much of a bleed to kill him now.

  David lavaged Merrill’s stomach once more. The gastric contents were pink, with no clots present. He glanced over to the monitor. Merrill’s blood pressure was 95/60 and climbing.

  “Good news, Mr. President,” David told him. “I think we’ve got a handle on it now.”

  “Thank you,” Merrill said gratefully, and closed his eyes.

  David motioned for Carolyn to follow him into the bathroom, well out of earshot from the President. The terrorist at the door stepped in so he could keep an eye on them.“One more big bleed and the President is dead,” David said quietly. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “Won’t the ice-water lavage hold him?” Carolyn asked.

  “Not for long,”
David answered. “He could break loose again in a matter of minutes.”

  “Shit!”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re going to be famous,” Carolyn said disgustedly. “We’ll be known as the people who let the President die while we just stood by and watched.”

  “I guess.” David tried to think through the dilemma, but knew there was no answer to the problem. Without blood or plasma transfusions or Factor VIII replacement, the President was as good as dead.

  “I think you should speak with the head terrorist again,” Carolyn suggested. “If you stress how desperate the situation is, maybe he’ll let them send up more blood for the President.”

  David shook his head. “He won’t change his mind. Never in a million years.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s got a secure situation, and he plans to keep it that way.”

  “But how can he be threatened by a couple of units of blood?” Carolyn asked.

  “You’d be surprised,” David said. He, like Aliev, knew that all it would take was one little breach, one small opening, and the enemy would find a way to use it to his advantage. “It’s similar to asking how a dumbwaiter can end up threatening the life of the President of the United States. On the surface, a dumbwaiter sounds innocuous, but here it turned out to be deadly, didn’t it?”

  “But surely they don’t want the President to die,” Carolyn argued. “A dead President is of no use to them.”

  “Sure he is,” David countered. “They just won’t let the outside world know. And after their demands are met, they’ll load his body into a helicopter and fly off, promising to release him later.”

  “Jesus!” Carolyn cringed. “How can people be so cold-blooded?”

  David gestured with his hands, but he knew the answer. Just instill enough hatred in them, then train them how to kill. That’s all it took. Like the terrorists in Mogadishu who had known nothing but dire poverty and felt they had little to live for, but plenty to die for—particularly if they could kill infidels in the process. Death in battle held no fear for them because it promised eternal happiness in paradise. And so they killed and died eagerly, yelling with their last breath that “God is great.”