“Sorry about the jaw,” Amanda said to the priest after a second. “I’m too tired to look; can you tell where he’s gone?”
“Not exactly. I know he’s pretty far from here. He started out going south, but then he stopped. I thought he was trying to get out of the state, but now I’m not so sure. Are you all right?”
“I will be; just a little down after our encounter.” An idea had been forming in her mind, and she tried to appraise the priest’s inner strength. “Father, do you remember yesterday’s lesson. Can you find and focus on a single mind among many?”
Lisa piped in. “He certainly focused in on my mind.”
“But you were sitting right next to him,” she turned to her mother-in-law. “Can you do it on a stranger, in a crowd? I don’t mean someone like Reisch; can you do it on someone who is unaware?”
“I can see where you’re going with this, Amanda,” Patton said.
“I think so; how is that going to help us find Reisch?” Oliver asked.
Amanda quickly explained what she had learned from Reisch. “There are eleven people out there, and each one is as dangerous as Reisch. I’m guessing that they have to be in or near major population centers—certainly New York, L.A., and Chicago.”
Oliver looked dubious. ”There are millions of people in those places. How do I find just one mind?”
“It’s not as farfetched as it seems. That one mind will have unique characteristics—excitement, fear, a sense of purpose and finality. It will be a singular pattern. You should be able to sense it and then home in.”
“A psychic bloodhound,” Greg said.
“Well, I can try,” Oliver said, a singular pattern of fear and excitement filling his mind.
“At least it will keep you out of my way,” Amanda smiled.
“Pick a place,” Patton said getting to his feet.
“New York?” Oliver said. “I’ve never been there and I’m sure it would be a target they would want to hit.” Oliver looked around the room for consensus.
“As good a place as any,” Patton said and practically lifted the priest to his feet. “At least we’ll be doing something.” Patton’s gaze fell on Amanda. “I’m still responsible for you. Are you going to behave?”
“As soon as I recover, I’m going after him. I will do what I have to do.” Amanda was getting tired of saying that to people. “But I have to do it alone.” She looked in turn at Lisa, Greg, and finally Oliver.”
“Fair enough,” Patton said, guiding Oliver to the door.
“You’re taking him now?” Greg asked. “It might be helpful if I went with him.” He quickly looked at his wife.
Patton looked at Oliver and then Amanda.
“I feel like a piece of meat,” Oliver quipped.
“Well, we’ll meet you downstairs,” Patton said and walked out of the waiting room. After a moment’s hesitation, Oliver followed.
“As soon as this is done, I was thinking about going home and taking a nap. I’m in no shape to do this again.” She said to her in-laws.
“I can drive her,” Lisa said. “Go, do your job,” she said to Greg. He kissed them both and followed after them.
“What’s it like, knowing what everyone around you is thinking?” Patton asked Oliver as they waited for the elevator.
“I haven’t been doing it for very long, but usually it’s rather sad,” Oliver said, hitting the down button for the elevator.
Patton looked at him with a frown.
“Most people scurry around, wrapped up in selfish and superficial concerns. They’re so involved with the trivial aspects of life that they never really learn what’s important to them.”
“Jesus Christ,” Patton said without thinking. “How depressing.”
Oliver shook his head. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Once you break through that superficial layer, you realize that most people are just like you. We all are driven by the same needs, we all want the same things, and we all are plagued by the same insecurities. All the same basic programs have been written into our souls, and that’s what connects us.”
Oliver’s voice trailed away as a young couple approached. The woman was carrying a new baby and was engrossed in his smiles and cooing. The young man shuffled behind them; an aura of blackness enveloped him. Even Patton could feel the cloud of malignancy that surrounded him.
The elevator door opened, and Patton stopped his appraisal of the young man long enough to squeeze into the car behind him. The door closed, and Oliver shifted closer to the two parents, pushing Patton’s stomach up against the polished stainless steel. Patton grunted and looked down at the priest and found him staring intently at the couple. For a moment, he thought he was about to bless the baby, but then the elevator dinged and the door slid open. Patton took three large steps and waited for Oliver. The priest caught up to him and paused. “Wait here for just a moment, Rodney,” he whispered as the young parents walked toward the lobby doors.
The young man stumbled a little, and then he let out a scream that filled the two-story atrium. He grabbed his head and fell to his knees, cries of pain echoing off the glass. The new mother was startled at first. She tried to bend down to her husband, but he was thrashing so wildly he threatened her baby. Then she started to scream for help, and the baby began to cry. Patton leapt forward and gently brushed her aside. He took hold of the smaller man’s shoulders and eased him to the floor. His screams were reduced to intermittent yelps that were almost as bad as the blood-curdling yells; his wife and child were crying so loudly that Patton wanted to be anywhere other than between them.
A few moments later, a nurse and two white-coated older men arrived and took over. Patton backed away as rapidly as the growing crowd would let him and just stared as they attended to the stricken young man. He found Oliver comforting the young mother; he had guided her away from the commotion and was practically whispering in her ear. The baby had quieted, but Mom continued to cry. She began to respond to what the priest was telling her, nodding her head. Patton didn’t think it was wise to intrude, so he waited as more help arrived, some of which was directed to the woman.
“Go with these nice people, honey. They’ll take care of everything,” Oliver said quietly. The woman’s eyes were wide, but unfocused, almost as if she was coming out of a trance. Oliver walked towards Patton. They exchanged glances and proceeded without a word through the double doors and into the early spring sunshine.
“You did that, didn’t you?” Patton said as they approached the car. “Was he going to hurt them?”
“Yes,” Oliver said without further explanation.
“Be careful how you use that,” Patton said softly, but then thought, if you can’t trust a priest, who can you trust?
“Don’t put too much faith in any man, Chief, including me,” Oliver responded to his thought. “But I will be careful.”
The MRI looked terrible. Streaks of gray and black filled the screen, and no matter how they tweaked the dials, they just couldn’t image his brain. The CAT scan had been a similar failure, and James Neval was running out of options. Dr. Rucker had sustained a devastating injury on top of an unidentifiable infection, and nothing he did seemed to make a difference. They had placed a small monitor under his scalp to measure the pressure inside his brain, and the last time he had checked that number blinked 42. It should have been less than 15. He was in a deep chemical coma; it was the last reasonable thing that could be done, and it wasn’t working.
“I’ve tried everything I know, and even some things I don’t know,” the neuroradiologist said. “I just can’t get you an image. He’s got to have metal or some strange paramagnetic effect in his head.” He was frustrated. It was their second attempt, and these pictures were worse than the first.
“What do you think?” Dr. Neval asked him.
“I think he’s fucked,” he answered glibly. “You can’t control his ICP without meds, and the meds make him hypotensive. I think its game over.”
Neval was about
to respond, but his pager suddenly beeped. “Guess who?” he said, exasperated, after checking the message.
“Rucker.”
“Right the first time. You’re almost smart enough to be a neurosurgeon,” Neval said while leaving the reading room, ignoring the sarcastic response of his friend.
“We can’t keep his pressure up with all this sedation, Doctor,” said Sandy Fuller, confronting Neval at the doors of the emergency unit. All the ICU patients had been moved to the emergency room, doubling its burden. “I’ve had three nurses with him for six hours now, and we’re only losing ground. I hate myself for saying this, but we’re going to lose other patients who can be saved.”
Neval knew this was more than just nursing exhaustion. Even before the destruction of the ICU this morning, it had been working at twice its capacity with only two-thirds the nursing staff.
“If we extubate him, can we keep him where he’s at?” asked Neval. Removing Phil’s breathing tube was tantamount to a death sentence. Without the respirator hyperventilating him, the pressure in Phil’s brain would build to the point where blood could no longer circulate through it.
“It’s not a question of space. I just can’t have three nurses in with him every moment, and right now, that’s what it takes.”
“Extubate him,” Neval said reluctantly. Phil Rucker was going to die, but his death would allow the nurses to save two, maybe three more lives. “Turn off the Propofol drip, and let his blood pressure find its own level.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” she said, and she was. Both of them knew that with proper resources, Phil could have been saved. “Goddamn them,” she said, walking away.
Neval was a Muslim; it wasn’t a secret, but it also wasn’t something he advertised. He watched the head nurse as she communicated his orders to her staff and wondered who Sandy Fuller was damning. If someone like Sandy had started condemning all Muslims to hell, then he too wanted the terrorists to burn for all eternity. The president had vowed that the United States would survive this cowardly attack and bring to justice all those involved, no matter who they were. It was the last line that had echoed in his mind. Jeser had replaced Al-Qaeda, and Jaime Avanti had replaced Osama bin Laden; but they were all Muslims, and twice in ten years, Muslims had attacked the United States.
Neval began to walk towards the ER’s single isolation room, but noticed several nurses huddled at the operations desk. He swung a little closer and saw that they were watching a television. “What’s going on?” he said, suddenly conscious of his slight accent.
Several people shushed him, and a large black man glared at him for a long second before turning back to the screen. One of the nurses suddenly realized who they had just shushed and motioned to her colleagues. The knot parted a little, allowing him to see the screen. “The Iranians just shot thirty-six cruise missiles at the Eisenhower battle group,” one of the supervisors said.
Neval noticed that a woman he didn’t know was sitting in a chair, a handkerchief over her mouth and tears streaming down her face.
“Beverly’s son is on the Eisenhower,” the nurse whispered.
The large black man turned up the volume as aggressively as he could. Neval saw a smoking aircraft carrier for a moment, and then the news bulletin switched back to the studio announcer. “Seven have been confirmed dead, and fourteen are missing,” the news anchor reported as Beverly sobbed loudly.
A security guard patted her shoulder gently. He bent down to whisper encouragement into her ear as the scene changed again, back to the wounded carrier.
“Flight operations continue and all fires have been controlled, but the USS Ronald Reagan has now assumed control of the battle group.”
An aerial view of a second aircraft carrier filled the screen.
“I’m sorry for interrupting you, John, but the president is just about to address the nation.”
The president’s tired and sagging face suddenly replaced that of the news anchor. “My fellow Americans, for the second time today, I have the sad duty of informing you of an attack upon the United States. Eight hours ago, the Islamic Republic of Iran, without provocation, fired more than three dozen cruise missiles at the USS Eisenhower. Sadly, one of them penetrated her defensive screen and struck her.” He paused, not so much for effect, but out of genuine grief.
“She has suffered casualties, and so have we.”
Neval had never seen the Californian so sincere.
The president’s face hardened. “The Eisenhower and her battle group had been in the Persian Gulf for three months and were in international waters when she was attacked. It has long been an assertion of the Islamic Republic of Iran, in contradistinction to international law, that they maintain sovereignty out to fifty miles from her coast. The Eisenhower and her battle group were seventy-two miles out to sea, steaming away from Iran. She posed no threat to the Iranians or their interests. These are irrefutable facts that can be, and have been, confirmed by British, Japanese, and Russian satellites.
“Two hours ago, combined naval and air forces of the United States of America responded.” He paused again only long enough to lean slightly towards the camera. “It has not been a proportionate response.”
The words hung in the air across the globe.
“The naval and airbase on Kefer Island has been destroyed. The Revolutionary Guard training facilities in Teget, Al Kum, and Teheran have also been destroyed. The six fast attack submarines that the Iranians purchased in secret over the past two years have been destroyed.”
The president continued for two more minutes and then finally took a sip of water. “I have instructed my commanders to destroy every piece of Iranian military hardware over the next two weeks. Further, I have ordered that the nuclear processing facility outside of Quom be destroyed. Finally, all air and sea traffic within the territory of Iran will cease immediately. If you choose to violate this order, we will see you, and we will destroy you.” There was no bluster in his voice, which made the message all the more penetrating.
“I would like to address Iranian military personnel. The United States has no quarrel with you. The responsibility for this attack lies with your leaders. Therefore, I encourage you to abandon your posts. Otherwise, you will die needlessly. I extend this advice also to the personnel of the nuclear plant outside of Quom. You have twenty-four hours from this moment.
“To the president of Iran and the Grand Ayatollah. I hold you both personally responsible for this attack and will pursue this matter through the United Nations and the World Court. In addition, if you or one of your citizens retaliates by harming any American citizen in Iran or anywhere else, we will begin to destroy your civilian infrastructure.
“And now to the rest of the world. To our allies and those who stand with us against terrorism and rogue states, I thank you, and assure you that the United States of America has always and will always abide by the rule of law. We have a sovereign right to defend ourselves. To those who stand against us, let me assure you that we will exercise that right. Good night.”
The television switched back to a wide-eyed anchorman. “Strong words and actions from President Wilson following the attack . . .”
Neval melted away back towards Phil’s room. The world is coming apart, he thought. He couldn’t really blame the president; a weak response would have only encouraged the radicals.
A respiratory therapist eyed his approach and addressed him more formally than usual. “He’s extubated; his breathing is stable, rate of twenty with good tidal volumes.” She finished a note in the chart and walked away without comment.
Damn them, he thought.
“A spy, a Russian spy!” Martin screamed.
“Dr. Martin, you are not helping matters,” Martha whispered. “I think you should take a break; walk around a little bit and clear your head. Let me handle this.”
He didn’t like being “handled,” but he saw her logic. Without another word, he walked out of his office. The last thing he heard was Martha deman
ding that everyone leave the room.
Nathan gave her twenty minutes and then crept back into his office. He lifted Maria’s head, and her eyes opened dreamily. Given the dark hair strewn across her face, the half-open but piercing blue eyes, and the torn blouse revealing flawless breasts, it was easy for Martin to see how this woman could have infiltrated his department. She radiated raw sexual energy, and even now, when he wanted nothing more than to strangle her, a part of his mind had reverted to teenage form and wanted nothing more than to touch her. “What did she tell you?”
“Everything,” Martha said, frowning at her boss.
Nathan looked up at his secretary, and although she was striking in her own right, he couldn’t help but notice how much older she looked. “Tell me,” he said, letting Maria’s chin drop unceremoniously back onto her chest.
“She’s from Bosnia, educated in Berlin. Recruited to the SVR seven years ago and has worked for Avanti the last five. The Russians wanted him almost as much as we did.” Martha had donned her reading glasses and read from her notes. “I gotta hand it to her, she is good. Aside from her obvious talents, she’s got other things going for her. She worked out Avanti’s contacts; even he didn’t know who he was really working with.”
“Who?” Spies, undercover agents, and international intrigues were all very interesting, but what he really wanted to know was why she was here. What was so important that Avanti would risk putting a mole right under his nose?
“A group of eight men. In this incarnation they were funneling money and guidance through a Saudi prince named Al-Rhodan, who doesn’t exactly share his great uncle’s Western bias. On the surface he appears credible enough, in fact eight years ago the Saudi royal family issued a death warrant for him. She didn’t know what he did to deserve that, but it had to be something for the royals to want to kill one of their own.” Martha answered.
“So he’s Avanti’s contact, but someone else is pulling his strings,” Martin clarified. “So who are they?”
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