Patient One: A Novel

by Leonard Goldberg

  Simcha sat in his wheelchair close to the door that was cracked open. He listened carefully to the conversation between terrorists in the corridor, hoping to glean new information on his fate. The young terrorists were speaking loudly and freely in Chechen, believing that none of the hostages could understand them. But Sol Simcha did. He was born in Ukraine where Russian was his mother tongue, and the language that the terrorists were now speaking sounded more like Russian than Chechen. As a result of the long and profound colonization of Chechnya by the Russians, the Chechen language had undergone so many transformations and was mixed with Russian to such an extent that it was often difficult to tell whether the younger Chechens were talking in Chechen or Russian. And to make matters even easier for Simcha, the Russian words the terrorists were uttering had a Ukrainian ring to them. Sol Simcha had no problem understanding their conversation.

  “The old Jew tried to look brave,” a terrorist was saying. “But did you see how tightly he held his prayer book? He was shitting in his pants.”

  “And he will shit even more when Aliev comes for him again,” a fellow terrorist said.

  “Jews!” the first terrorist spat out disgustedly. “They cause trouble wherever they go.”

  “Nazis!” Simcha growled under his breath. There were still plenty of them around, and they came in all shapes, sizes, and colors.

  “Maybe there will be a lot of Jews at the place we detonate the bomb,” the terrorist went on. “That would be a bonus.”

  “That would be a blessing,” his fellow terrorist agreed.

  “Aliev says the destruction will be unimaginable. He predicts thousands and thousands will die.”

  “And nobody will be allowed in the area for years to come, because of the intense radioactivity.”

  Simcha couldn’t believe his ears. Oh, my God! They’re talking about an atomic bomb! They’re going to drop an atomic bomb on this city! It will be like 9/11 a thousand times over!

  He moved closer to the door and concentrated his hearing. Now the terrorists were talking about a plane.

  “Is the plane that large?”

  “Oh, yes. It must be. We will be taking many hostages with us all the way back.”

  “And it will carry the bomb too, eh?”

  “Without a problem. It’s a big cargo plane that Aliev chartered. It can come up to us in a few hours from Mexico on Aliev’s command.”

  “The plan is so perfect.”

  “It is better than perfect. After we drop the bomb, the plane will take us home, where we can watch the disaster unfold on television.”

  A voice called out from down the corridor.

  “Coming!” a terrorist called back.

  The conversation was over.

  Simcha pushed his wheelchair away from the door, still stunned by the viciousness of the Chechens. Not only did they want to free their prisoners, they also wanted to inflict as much damage as possible on innocent people. In a crowded city like Los Angeles, they could kill hundreds of thousands, and seriously injure millions more. And they can’t be stopped! Simcha knew he would be the next to die, and their secret would die with him unless he did something. But what?

  Think, old man! Think! You thought your way out of a Nazi concentration camp. Think your way out of this!

  Somehow I’ve got to tell the others. But how do I do it away from the terrorists? How? They watch every move I—

  Suddenly, Simcha’s eyes lit up. He quickly moved his wheelchair over to the nurse call button on his bed and pressed down on it.

  There was no response.

  He pushed the button again and again until Carolyn’s voice finally came over the intercom. “What is it, Sol?”

  “I’m having chest pain,” Simcha gasped. “You’d better come right now!”

  He tried to stand, but he was too weak. Instead he placed his head on the bed and allowed his arms to dangle by his sides. It gave the appearance he had passed out. He heard footsteps coming down the corridor, along with the rumble of a machine on wheels.

  The door flew open and Carolyn rushed in, pushing an EKG machine in front of her. Aliev was a step behind, breathing heavily from having to run after her. He grabbed her by the arm.

  “What are you doing in here?” he demanded.

  “Sol is having a heart attack,” Carolyn answered hastily.

  “So what?”

  “He’ll die.”

  “Then let him die.”

  “We … we should try to save him,” Carolyn said, desperately trying to think of a reason for the terrorist to allow her to treat Sol.

  “Why should I care if the old Jew lives or dies?” Aliev said with a shrug. He motioned with his Uzi to the corridor. “Now go back to the nurses’ station, obtain the drugs you need for the President, and look after his bleeding stomach.”

  Carolyn blinked. Bleeding stomach! Blood! She had a reason for Aliev to want Sol Simcha to live. “The President will shortly need more blood, or he’ll die.”

  “Then give him more blood from the doctor,” Aliev said.

  “We can’t. He’s already weak from giving too much,” she explained, then pointed to Sol Simcha. “But we could probably use his. His blood type is AB negative, the same as the President’s.”

  Aliev remained expressionless, but he was thinking it was a good idea to keep the old man breathing to serve as a source of blood for the President. The people in Washington might insist on speaking to John Merrill again to make sure he was still alive. “Okay, treat him.”

  “I’ll need Dr. Ballineau’s help.”

  “Go get him.”

  Carolyn dashed out of the room and ran full speed down the corridor. As she passed William Warren’s suite, she glanced in and saw the cardiac crash cart, and she briefly considered grabbing it for Sol. No. Wait until David confirms the diagnosis of myocardial infarction, then come back for the cart if it’s needed. Jesus Christ! Two M.I.s and a G.I. bleeder on the same floor, and only one doctor and one nurse to tend to them.

  Carolyn hurried into the President’s room, and rushed to the bedside. David was flushing Merrill’s nasogastric tube. Its contents were pink, with small clots in it.

  “David! David!” she cried out and quickly described what was happening to Sol Simcha, and the story she had told about his blood type and how they might use his blood for the President.

  “Is he really AB negative?” David asked quickly.

  “Who the hell knows?” Carolyn said. “But that will keep him alive for now because Aliev thinks he is.”

  David nodded. “Were you able to take Sol’s vital signs?”

  Carolyn shook her head. “Aliev wouldn’t let me near him.”

  “And what makes you think he’ll deal with me any differently?”

  “Because I convinced him we needed you to treat Sol and keep him alive.”

  David grabbed his stethoscope and said, “Let’s go!”

  They sprinted down the corridor, now joined by two terrorists, their Uzis at the ready. David glanced to the side and noticed the fire-stairs door was closed again, with the chain-like locking device back in place. Aliev didn’t go to the roof to post a lookout, David deduced grimly, or he wouldn’t have chained the door shut. More likely the terrorist planted another bomb up there. The bastard was making sure the explosion would kill everybody.

  Now they were passing the nurses’ station. David’s heart dropped. Jarrin Smith and the Russian security agent were tied securely to their chairs. Jarrin caught David’s eye and shrugged futilely. Goddamn it! David thought miserably. The ward clerk hadn’t been able to contact the hospital operator. Somehow the terrorists must have discovered him trying. That’s why he was tied up.

  They raced into Sol Simcha’s room, and hurried to his bedside. Simcha was slumped down in his wheelchair, his
eyelids closed, his chest barely moving.

  Carolyn leaned over Simcha and searched for a carotid pulse. “Sol! Sol!”

  Simcha opened his eyes and said weakly, “Help me into bed, please.”

  Carolyn and David gently lifted the elderly man from his wheelchair and eased him onto his mattress. Carolyn slapped EKG leads across Simcha’s chest as David reached for a blood pressure cuff.

  Out of the corner of his eye Simcha glanced over to the doorway. A terrorist was standing there, watching everything.

  “Where is your chest pain located?” David asked urgently.

  Simcha mumbled an answer.

  “Where?” David asked again, putting his ear by Simcha’s mouth.

  “I’m not having a heart attack,” Simcha whispered in a barely audible voice. “But make believe I am, because there is something I must tell you.”

  “What?” David whispered back.

  “They’ve got an atomic bomb,” Simcha said quietly.

  “What did you say?” David asked, wondering if he’d heard the old man correctly.

  “An atomic bomb,” Simcha repeated in a low voice. “I heard them talking about it in a Russian dialect outside my door. They didn’t think I could hear or understand them.”

  David looked at Simcha skeptically. “Are you sure? Is your Russian that good?”

  “It’s as good as theirs,” Simcha replied. “It was one mother tongue, growing up in Ukraine. Believe me, there is a bomb and they’re going to drop it.”

  David pumped up the blood pressure cuff to make a covering noise. He motioned to Carolyn and said, “Start tearing off EKG strips and listen to what Sol has to say.” Then he came back to Simcha. “Tell us about this atomic bomb.”

  “What!” Carolyn uttered too loud.

  “Shhh!” David hushed her and again pumped up the blood pressure cuff. “Go ahead, Sol. Give us details.”

  “There’s a chartered cargo plane on the ground somewhere in Mexico. It’ll come up here in a few hours on Aliev’s command. That’s how they will escape.”

  David nodded at the strategy. That was the smart move. Have your own plane and pilot. Less could go wrong. “Do they plan to take hostages with them?”

  “Yes,” Simcha replied. “Then they’ll drop the bomb from it.”

  “How do you know it’s an atomic bomb?”

  “Because they said the radioactivity will be so bad that nobody will be allowed in for years.”

  “Jesus!” David hissed under his breath. An atomic bomb! he thought, appalled, realizing that the explosives the terrorists were talking about earlier wasn’t a bomb on the Beaumont Pavilion. They were talking about an atomic bomb.

  Carolyn pretended to show David the EKG, and leaned over to Simcha. “Sol, are you sure they weren’t just making this up to scare you?”

  Simcha shook his head. “I’m scared enough as it is, and they know it. What they said wasn’t meant for my ears. It was meant only for theirs. Believe me, I’ve had a lot of experience with this.”

  Simcha’s mind went back briefly to a Nazi guard who enjoyed tormenting prisoners by misinforming them about their date of execution.

  “Anyhow,” he continued on, “I’ll be the next to die, and I don’t want the secret to die with me. Maybe you’ll survive, and if you do you can notify the authorities.”

  “Don’t give up,” David said, patting Simcha’s bony shoulder. “You may get out of here yet.”

  “Oh?” Simcha asked, and tried to read David’s face. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Just hang tough.”

  David led the way out into the corridor. Once past the guard, he turned to Carolyn and said, “Give Sol a placebo and make it appear that he’s had a heart attack. Maybe that will cause Aliev to back off.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” Carolyn grumbled and glanced down the corridor. Aliev was hurrying toward them. “Here comes the cold-hearted bastard now.”

  “Let me handle this,” David said rapidly, and began studying an EKG strip for effect.

  Aliev came up to them and peered into Sol Simcha’s room. “What has happened?”

  “Mr. Simcha has had a heart attack,” David said gravely.

  “You must keep him alive,” Aliev ordered. “After he’s given his blood, it wouldn’t do for me to shoot a dead man in the head. That would have no effect at all.”

  “Have you no sense of decency?” Carolyn screeched.

  “Be careful!” Aliev warned menacingly. “You may be the next to die, after the old Jew.”

  David saw a flash of anger on Aliev’s face, but it quickly vanished. The terrorist was mean as a snake but under control, and that made him twice as dangerous. Be very careful in his presence, David cautioned himself. He took a deep breath and resisted the urge to spin Aliev around and snap his neck. It would be over in seconds. But even if he succeeded and grabbed the Uzi, there wouldn’t be time to use it. The other terrorists would mow him down. And Carolyn, too. David reached for Carolyn’s arm and pulled her down the corridor, saying, “We have to go look after the President.”

  When they were out of earshot, Carolyn said in a low voice, “That was a stupid move on my part.”

  “Yeah,” David agreed. “Don’t tempt him again. He’s ready to kill somebody, and I don’t think it matters much who.”

  “It sounds to me like he’s ready to kill a whole bunch of people,” Carolyn said, then swallowed nervously. “Do you really think they’d drop an atomic bomb on this city?”

  “Without giving it a second thought.”

  “Somehow we’ve got to let the people on the outside know about it,” Carolyn said.

  “Just tell me how to do it,” David said. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea.”

  “Me, neither.”

  Carolyn abruptly turned to David. “If the rescue attempt succeeds, we can tell them then.”

  “And what if the attempt fails?”

  Carolyn shivered to herself. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

  They entered the President’s room on tiptoes. Merrill was dozing fitfully, twisting and turning and mumbling under his breath. His vital signs were stable, but the fluid in his nasogastric tube was now deep pink, with small blood clots floating in it.

  “He’s starting to bleed again,” Carolyn said quietly.

  David nodded. “And we have no more blood or plasma to give him.”

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  “We ran out of options an hour ago.”

  David sighed heavily to himself, thinking that University Hospital was about to become even more famous for the wrong reason. Like Parkland Memorial Hospital in Dallas, where John F. Kennedy was pronounced dead, University Hospital in Los Angeles would now be remembered as the place where another charismatic American president died at the hands of others. And what was done and not done would be second-guessed for decades to come. David gazed over at the President and the blood-tinged fluid coming out of his stomach. It was only a matter of time now.

  The stillness in the room was suddenly broken by a loud wheeze coming from the ceiling.

  There was another wheeze, then another, followed by a raspy cough.

  The panel above them slid open and Karen lowered her head out of the ceiling crawlspace.

  “David!” Karen gasped and tried to suck air into her lungs. “I need an inhaler!”

  David hesitated, wanting her to wheeze and choke for being part of a terrorist group. But his professional code of conduct gnawed at his conscience. He couldn’t let anybody with a treatable medical condition suffer. He just couldn’t. He turned to Carolyn. “Hand me one of the epinephrine syringes.”

  Carolyn reached into her pocket and held out the syringe.
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br />   At that moment Aliev burst into the room and stared at David and Carolyn. He didn’t see the ceiling panel move back into place.

  Everything went silent except for the soft clicks coming from the President’s monitors.

  “Why all the noise?” Aliev demanded.

  “The President had a coughing spell,” David answered.

  Aliev glanced around the room suspiciously, then tilted his head back as if sampling the air. Gradually his eyes drifted down to Carolyn and the syringe she was holding.

  “What is in the syringe?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Epinephrine,” Carolyn replied.

  “What is it used for?”

  Carolyn thought quickly, and said, “For cardiac problems.”

  “Is the President having this?”

  “His heart beat is becoming weaker,” Carolyn lied.

  “See that he stays alive.”

  Aliev spun around and headed for the door. Just before he reached the corridor a loud wheeze sounded from the ceiling. Then another came, louder yet and more prolonged.

  Aliev hurried back into the room and pointed his Uzi at the ceiling. Without emotion he squeezed the trigger, firing round after round until the panels above were peppered with bullet holes. Then he stopped and listened.

  There were several seconds of silence before a weak female voice cried out, “Help me! Please help!”

  Aliev yelled orders in Chechen to the two terrorists who were standing in the doorway. One of the men jumped up on the President’s bed and hurriedly removed ceiling panels. With a grunt he reached into the crawlspace and pulled Karen’s blood-spattered white blouse into view. The second terrorist helped him lower Karen onto the floor.

  In a split second David was at her side. He ripped open her Oxford blouse and saw a sucking chest wound. With each inspiration, air was being sucked into the pleural space, putting pressure on the nearby lung and causing it to collapse. Karen was gasping for air, her skin becoming cyanotic.

  David hurriedly turned to Carolyn. “Do we have a chest tube on the ward?”