by Bill Clem
"Yes," Gregg asked, acknowledging him.
"What are the chances of the President surviving after a transplant?"
Ritter asked.
"Excellent. He has no other health problems. Barring any post-op complications, he could return to work within a month."
Ritter nodded.
Gregg stood up from the table. "Now gentlemen, I need to evaluate some lab tests of the President's, so you'll have to excuse me."
Gregg started to leave the room when Ritter stopped him.
"Dr. Gregg," Ritter said, "I'm sure you realize the President's condition is top secret. I assume you were briefed, along with your staff."
Gregg inhaled silently. "Yes, sir. We have our script and we will follow it to the letter." Gregg looked in the direction of the group, then walked out.
Chapter Fourteen
Jack craned his neck as he tried to see the small television bolted to his wall. A blond reporter from CNN with a microphone in front of her face filled the screen. She stood in front of a building that looked vaguely familiar to him. Behind her, people in suits along with doctors and nurses hurried about. He grabbed the TV control off the side of his bed and keyed up the volume.
"The President came to Zurich to meet with Russian President Viktor Chermonovik at Breckgarten to sign the Oil Exploration Pact. The agreement, which would bring millions of gallons of oil to the US, and help bolster the ailing Russian economy, has been criticized by the Vice President, as too generous. He denies any such criticism in public. Of course it's of no significance now as President Lloyd has apparently suffered a massive heart attack on his arrival in Zurich. We will bring you details as they're available."
"Holy shit," Jack said out loud. He had missed the first part of the report, but heard enough to know the President might be either dead, or close to it. Of course! The United States, Russia, suddenly Jack's mind kicked into overdrive and was flooded with questions. Now the specifics came. I'm here to cover the summit. To possibly interview the President.
As he stared at the television, largely overcome with shock, a part of his brain went on high alert. Perhaps his journalistic instincts had awakened as well. One thing he knew, though, it was his chance to get the big story for a change. A more fantastic story than anything he could have imagined a week ago.
Does anyone know I'm here?
Someone at the magazine must know what happened. He dropped his head back down on the pillow, already exhausted from the shocking revelation.
He jammed the call bell for the nurse.
Chapter Fifteen
Jonah Bailey and Dave Leah took a seat in two of the folding, metal chairs along with the other fifty doctors at Zurich Trauma who waited to find out the purpose of the meeting.
Bob Bradley had driven the three miles from Brighton, their affiliate hospital, to address the group. As Chief of Staff of both hospitals, he had to coordinate the search for the President's donor. Zurich Trauma, being the sister hospital of Brighton, could play a big role.
Bradley stood behind a small wooden podium with a metal microphone that stuck out the top, reminiscent of the kind used in school auditoriums. He pulled down the mike and tapped it. "Ladies and gentleman," he said, barely audible above all the chatter.
"Can everyone hear me?"
The room went quiet. "Ladies and gentleman," he began again. "As many of you probably already know from the media circus, this morning at eight-fifteen, President Thomas Lloyd, in Zurich for a meeting, suffered a massive myocardial infarction shortly after he arrived. At the moment, he's under the care of Dr. Roy Gregg, at Brighton. His condition is extremely critical, making transfer impossible. Dr. Gregg has informed me, the President will have to undergo a heart transplant in the next forty-eight hours if he is to survive."
Several hands went up simultaneously. Suddenly the room filled with chatter again. "Please, let me finish," Bradley said. "I will take questions in a minute. Time is of the utmost importance. We've notified all procurement agencies, and we are using all our available resources to secure a donor. Needless to say, this is a highly sensitive issue and of great importance to United States national security. We can't allow any information to leak to the press. And that comes right from the Vice President. Nothing, and I repeat nothing; can go beyond these four walls. The lower echelon staff will get briefed in private, on a need to know basis. We have to try to keep things as normal as possible. If the press should ask you anything, you are to tell them nothing. Are there any questions?"
So many hands went up in the room; it looked like a kindergarten class on the first day of school.
Chapter Sixteen
Larry Spalding paced the floor of his Detroit office. As the chief editor for Political Times Magazine, he had given Jack McDermott the assignment of his career: to cover the United States and Russian oil summit, and possibly interview President Lloyd. Now, Spalding wondered if he had made a mistake. He had not heard from Jack in two days, not even as much as an email. He didn't know if he should worry or just get pissed off.
Tired of pacing, Spalding decided to call the press quarters in Zurich himself to see if he could locate Jack. He reached across his desk and mashed the intercom. "Doris?"
"Yes, Mr. Spalding?"
"Could you come in here please?"
Barely finished his sentence, his secretary shuffled in, note pad in hand.
"Doris, I need you to contact the press quarters in Zurich. Jack hasn't called in two days, and I need to know what the hell is going on."
Doris smiled. "You know Jack, sir, he's very independent."
"How well I know. Still, he should have called; I have a feeling something is wrong."
Doris made a few notations on her pad and looked up. "All right. I'll try to get through and see what I can find out."
Chapter Seventeen
The headquarters for the Central European Donor Bank sat in a nondescript building between two other nondescript buildings on Furtherstrause, in Bern. Once inside, though, the mundane look changed to something resembling the control room of NASA. Mainframe computers that sent and received data faster than a person could blink lined every wall.
Sitting in front of four large video screens, a lone technician processed information. Hours earlier, he had received an urgent request from the head of EOPN. The recipient, being one, Thomas Lloyd, President of the United States.
Hans Brinkman, the tech on duty, not familiar with politics, knew nothing of this man. He only knew he had to give the search top priority.
As he watched the screen, name after name, passed in a rapid blur--no matches. Then, the screen suddenly grew very bright and a name appeared with medical data underneath it. At the top of the screen the word MATCH appeared in red letters. The name under it said: JACK McDERMOTT.
LOCATION: ZURICH TRAUMA CENTER
CLOSED HEAD INJURY- NO BRAIN ACTIVITY
EXPECTED TIME OF CLINICAL DEATH: LESS THAN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS
BLOOD TYPE: B-POS TISSUE TYPE--SEE ATTACHED LAB REPORTS
OTHER PERTINENT MEDICAL DATA--SEE ATTACHED
The technician quickly scanned the recipient file on the other screen to make sure the name matched--it did.
"Well Mr. Thomas Lloyd," he said out loud. "Today is your lucky day. A perfect match, right down to the heart anomaly."
He yanked the phone out of the cradle and dialed the number for Brighton Heart Center.
Chapter Eighteen
"Well technically, you're not in charge until you are sworn in," the Secretary of Defense said to Vice President Ritter.
Ritter pushed the phone closer to his mouth. "Are you questioning my authority? Let me remind you, I'm the one carrying the football."
"Warren, get real. There's one here at the White House for just such an occasion. And I'm not questioning your authority. I'm just telling you, when the President is incapacitated, you have to be on U.S. soil to succeed him. Otherwise, the job falls to the Speaker of the House because he's here in Washington."
>
"That idiot couldn't stand in for a White House aid, much less the President."
"Warren, be reasonable."
"Reasonable, I'll tell you what. If any decisions are made without my approval, I'll have your head on a platter. You understand?"
"Believe me; we won't do anything without consulting you."
Ritter slammed the phone down. He didn't need anyone to tell him the law. There were, however, exceptions to everything. And it is assumed, if the President can't carry out his duties, the Vice President steps in--period.
Ritter was still steaming when Denton Cogswell walked in.
"So how does it feel to be in charge?" Cogswell asked.
Ritter rolled his eyes. "According to the White House, I'm not."
"We know better, though, now don't we?"
"Tell that to them. Start fucking around with me, I'll put their ass back at Harvard teaching economics to rich kids."
Cogswell looked around the room. Degrees and diplomas from various schools covered the walls. Bradley had let Ritter set up an operations center in his office. He'd even installed a secure phone line for him. Cogswell sat down at the desk and propped his feet on the corner of it.
"Has Russia issued a formal statement yet?" he asked.
Ritter looked bored. "Oh yea, they said something to the effect of, we are deeply saddened by President Lloyd's accident, and hope he can return to these historic talks as soon as possible."
"What a crock," Cogswell said. "They're ready to start sucking money out of our treasury is more like it. Well, when this is over there won't be any more talks. It's about time we put them back in their place. By the way, how is our fearless leader?"
"Holding his own right now. Not very stable I'm afraid. They've got him on so many medications; I doubt he knows what planet he's on."
Cogswell's cellular rang, and he pulled it from his jacket and flipped it open. "Cogswell here... Christ already! All right, we'll be there."
Cogswell looked at Ritter and furrowed his brow. "It's Bradley. We need to get everyone together. He says they found a donor."
Ritter went ashen. "How could they find a donor so soon? Or for that matter, at all. You go ahead. I'll be along in a minute."
Ritter pondered his disappointment while his thoughts carried him back six months. He had been lecturing Lloyd.
"Russia and the United States have tried to break the Cold War mentality for fifty-years now. Even before the iron curtain came down, diplomacy failed to bring them true democracy. There are always elements that will resist, just as there are today. It's never going to change; it's genetic. It's mutual hate. What makes you think one oil deal is going to change anything?"
Lloyd looked at him, cocked his head to one side, then paused. "Warren, sometimes I wonder why I even put you on my ticket."
With that, Lloyd walked out of the Oval Office without another word.
Ritter's phone rang and jolted him back to the present. "There waiting on you," Cogswell told him.
"All right, I'm coming," he said, irritated.
He hung the phone up and felt an odd hesitation.
There is no other way, Ritter thought, fighting the growing remorse. Far too much is at stake.
Chapter Nineteen
Beside himself, Peter Schell shook his head. For some reason he had screwed up when he cross-referenced Thomas Lloyd's donor request. Doing so had created a serious problem for Brighton Heart Center. Bradley had made a special trip over to Zurich Trauma to assure him he would "be on the carpet in his office, just as soon as this crisis is over." Bradley called it an "idiot mistake, irresponsible, and embarrassing to the hospital."
Schell could not believe he had messed up so bad. He could only imagine what Bradley would do to him "on the carpet", whatever that meant. Being from Yugoslavia, he was not familiar with American slang. He felt certain, though, it could not be good.
Chapter Twenty
Warren Ritter, weasel-like, walked into the conference room just behind Bob Bradley. He stared at Bradley a moment. He didn't look much like the CEO of two of the most important hospitals in the world. Short and round, with two bb for eyes, and clothes too tight in some places, too loose in others. His only attribute was a thick head of black hair he constantly ran his hand through, as if wondering how to handle the next problem, of the many his job undoubtedly carried.
"Gentleman," Bradley started. "As you know, I called this meeting to inform you, we have found a donor for President Lloyd. I'm sorry to say, there's a problem."
"What kind of problem?" Ritter asked.
Bradley swallowed hard. "Well, as I said, we found a donor. The problem is... he's not dead."
Ritter's eyes bulged. "What!"
Bradley's face reddened. "If... if you'll just let me explain--"
"Please do," Ritter said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Bradley gave a somber sigh. "The donor's name came up on the EOPN computer in Bern as a match. In fact, he is right here in Zurich at our affiliate hospital, Zurich Trauma. He sustained a serious head injury, making a recovery unlikely. He carried an organ donor card on admission, and with his poor prognosis, he ended up on the donor list for patients expected to expire in forty-eight hours or less. Fortunately for him, he made an amazing recovery, and was supposed to have been taken out of the system. Our technician notified me a donor had been found before he did the verification checks. So after I put everything in motion and notified all of you, I get a call from Zurich Trauma, who tells me our donor is alive and well. Needless to say, the technician will be looking for a new job tomorrow."
Ritter stood up and leaned his knuckles against the table.
"How could you idiots let this happen? Don't you know you've wasted precious time the President doesn't have?" Ritter laid it on thick.
"Not to mention, the national security issue," Charlie Lathbury chimed in.
Bradley was getting frustrated. "I realize that. We have already started another search."
National Security Advisor Pete Mazur stood up. "Mr. Bradley, could you excuse us for a few minutes. I'm sure you understand. This is a very sensitive issue, and we need to confer in private. I'll meet with you in your office, just as soon as we're finished here."
"Of course," Bradley said, and slipped quietly out the door.
When Bradley had left, Mazur took a deep breath and pushed his heavy glasses higher on his nose. His eyes appeared huge and bug-like behind the lenses, so thick they appeared cut from Coke bottles.
"All right, what I'm about to say might sound cruel, it might sound callous, and it may even shock you, but I'm going to say it anyway. Our President needs a heart. The only suitable donor is alive and well right here in Zurich. We don't even know if another donor can be found. So I ask you, what are our options?"
"I think we know the answer to that," Charlie Lathbury said.
Ritter stood up. "We need to act fast. Now--who is this donor?"
Chapter Twenty-One
"Mr. Mazur, this is unbelievable. Not only is it morally and ethically wrong, it's not something I want myself, or the hospital, involved in."
"I don't think you understand, Mr. Bradley," Mazur said, boring down on him. "It's a matter of national security for the United States."
Bradley ran his hand through his oily hair. "Yes, but what you're talking about is tantamount to murder!"
"You are an American, are you not, Mr. Bradley? Or has living over here changed your values?"
Bradley exhaled silently. "Of course not."
"Then you can understand why we have to do this. The President needs a heart, you've got a donor, and we need him."
"A donor who is not dead," Bradley said. "A donor who is not even a donor anymore." Bradley's ruddy complexion had turned scarlet.
Mazur's face hardened. "Exactly my point--he still is a donor. That's all you need to know, or say, we will handle the rest."
"Mr. Mazur please tr--"
"You just make sure his records disappear--qu
ickly. Furthermore, you are to tell no one about this. Not one single person. Do you understand, Mr. Bradley?"
"I understand." Bradley felt bile in his throat.
"Good," Mazur stood up, then excused himself. Halfway out the door, he stuck his head back in and looked at Bradley. "No one."
Bradley nodded as the door closed. He sat down at his desk and his hands collapsed in his lap. His fear turned to anger as he considered his choices. He looked around the room at all the administrative awards he had garnered over the years. Degrees and diplomas covered his walls. Nothing, however, could have prepared him for this. It wasn't something they taught in school.
"Goddammit." He slammed his fist down on the desk.
Bradley picked up the phone and punched the extension for medical records. After one ring, a clerk picked up.
"Medical records," the voice said.
"This is Bob Bradley. I need a patient's records brought over from Zurich Trauma. I need all of them right away, and I don't want them copied. I just want the original hard copies in my office in the next half hour. His name is Jack McDermott. Thank You."
Bradley hung up the phone and stood in numb silence for a minute. He went to his computer and logged on. He hesitated for a moment, then punched in a special code known only to him.
The prompt appeared on the screen, and he typed: JACK MCDERMOTT- MEDICAL RECORDS-COMPLETE LIST. The computer clicked several times as the file downloaded to the hard drive.
When it finished the screen read: MEDICAL RECORDS DOWNLOAD COMPLETE
Bradley's hand trembled as he moved it back to the keyboard to do the unthinkable. He pushed the delete key and another prompt appeared: ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DELETE THIS FILE? He pointed the mouse at yes, and clicked. In an instant he removed any trace of Jack McDermott ever being a patient at Zurich Trauma. The only remaining thing to do was to get the actual paper records that were on their way to him now.
