by Randall Wood
Sam had been startled by the yell from the hallway. Had it thrown off his shot? He didn’t dare look for fear of counter-snipers. He moved to the door leading to the hallway, listening as someone began kicking the door to the adjoining room in. The door lock gave on the third kick, but the safety latch caught it two inches later. Sam’s view out the peephole showed an empty hallway, so he took a chance and slowly unlocked and opened the door a crack. Whoever it was had now made entry into the room. It was one guy, he realized, one guy who knew his name. Jack? He did not wish to meet his friend right now. He scooped up the gym bag he had placed beside the door and silently left his room for the stairwell exit. He could hear the inner door being assaulted as he took the stairs down. He would have to hurry.
• • •
The shot which punctuated his yell had been startling. Jack’s first reflex had been to hit the floor. This was soon replaced by the thought of entering the room before Sam could fire again. He scrambled to his feet and kicked at the door. His lack of proper boots for this was soon apparent, as the door held and his ankle was on fire. He continued to kick until the door gave, all the while waiting for the shot that never came.
He tumbled into the room and scanned left to right. No lights, a TV on with no volume, the picture showing the mess just outside the Capitol. He took a breath and tried the connecting room door. It was unlocked, so he turned the knob and shouldered it open. The door promptly struck something and returned to strike him full in the face. He dove to the ground and rolled. Coming up to a kneeling position, he again swept the room. The door had struck a pair of dressers sitting in the middle of the room. A rifle lay on one of two chairs sitting on top. The cold air entered through the shattered window. The room was otherwise empty.
He was just about to rise and assault the final door, when the familiar sound of a rifle round zipped past his head, along with the remaining shattered glass of the window. The crack was accompanied by another round. Jack hit the floor and fumbled for the radio Greg had loaned him. He had to wait for it to warm up and cue on the frequency. It took forever.
“Cease fire, cease fire! Friendly in the room! Greg, it’s Jack! Tell your men to cease fire!”
The command voice of the HRT leader was quick and clear. “All units, hold your fire. Repeat, all units hold fire. Jack, are you all right?”
“I’m not shot, if that’s what you mean. Can I get up now?”
“Wait one. Break. Sierra Three, did you receive my last?”
“Affirmative TOC. Cease fire on blue-golf-one. We are off target.”
“Go, Jack. You’re clear. What do you have?”
“Looks like one shooter. I have the rifle still in the room. Believe he left by the second door.” Jack rose and walked to the door. He opened it to find hotel guests in the hallway. He pointed at the nearest one.
“Did you see anyone leave this room?”
“No. What was that noise?”
Jack turned and looked through the safety glass of the stairwell door. He saw nothing. Looking back down the hall, he saw more people exiting their rooms and watching him.
“Everyone back in their rooms! Stay there until you are contacted.” He waved the Browning to punctuate the statement, and people hastily complied. Jack returned his attention to the stairwell. He paused to key the radio. “Greg, I think he took the stairs, but I’m not sure, I need you to secure and search every room in this hotel. I’m going to check the stairwell.” He slipped through the door and began creeping his way down. Greg’s reply was lost in static as Jack descended the first flight.
• • •
Sydney paced the floor with several documents in her hand. She had finally given up on the phone, and had been found an unoccupied outlet to plug the thing in to recharge. It had occurred to her that she may be killing Jack’s phone with the repeated calling. She was forcing herself to wait ten minutes, when a shout went up from across the room. She turned to see the view on the TV showing police cruisers making their way through the crowd around the Capitol Building. She searched for the remote to turn up the volume, but could not find it under all the paper. Larry finally just reached up and did it the old-fashioned way. A young reporter was standing in front of the camera braving the wind.
“—confirming now that Senator Harper of Georgia has been shot outside the Capitol Building, where he had been attending the State of the Union Address. At this time, we are unsure of the extent of his injuries. The shot appears to have come from the Holiday Inn here on Capitol Hill. The building is currently being surrounded by police. I am being told a total of three shots were heard. A window on the seventh floor appears to be broken. No word at this time on the number of shooters. The President has been at the White House for some time, and I am told he is not in danger. Both the Capitol Building and the White House were already locked down due to the explosive device set off on the Mall earlier. We are unsure if these items are related. I . . . I’m being told we have to move from our present location. I’ll return as soon as we are back up. Jim.”
Sydney turned from the screen and walked away as the anchorman came on and began repeating what the reporter had just told them. She walked to the phone, seized it, and yanked it off the charger. She hurriedly punched speed dial one.
• • •
The kinks in Sam’s legs were gone by the fourth floor. He slowed to see through the first-floor window into the lobby. There were a few police at the desk, and some in the main entrance—not enough to cover the large crowded lobby. He exited the stair entrance casually, and walked a few yards to the kitchen entrance. He proceeded through the servers’ area until he came to the stairwell leading to the laundry facilities. He ignored the stares of the staff and scanned the room, looking for his target. Another door presented itself and he opened it to feel a blast of warm moist air. The smell of lubricating oil filled his nostrils. The old boiler room. While the hotel was modern upstairs, everything below was still from another time.
He entered the room via a half flight of stairs. Closing the door behind him, he looked for a way to lock it. Nothing presented itself immediately, so he walked on, reaching into the gym bag. He soon found what he was looking for. A door in the far corner, steel with a padlock. It was labeled with a sign that read City of Washington DC Department of Transportation. No Trespassing.
Without breaking his stride, Sam pulled a crowbar from the gym bag and stuck the business end through the lock. Applying all his weight, the lock gave way with a loud snap. Sam quickly pulled it free of the hasp and tossed it away in the corner. The heavy steel door opened to reveal a man-sized dark tunnel leading away from the room. Bundles of wires hung from the ceiling. The floor was damp. The faint sound of screeching metal could be heard in the distance.
Sam pulled a large flashlight from the bag and punched it on. Its red lens was bright enough to illuminate the tunnel so he could see, but not bright enough to reveal his position from a distance. With one last look behind him, Sam pulled the door shut. He then consulted his wrist compass before setting off down the tunnel.
• • •
Ron had jumped at the sound of the gunshots. Years of service on the streets of DC had made him well familiar with the sound. He reached over and shook his partner awake.
“Get ready,” was all he told her puzzled face. He put on a pair of latex gloves, followed by a cheap fingerless wool pair. This was followed by his hat and then his jacket. When he was done, he picked up the microphone and waited. His wait was short.
“Medic 11, Control. Respond to a shooting. Constitution and Delaware. Constitution and Delaware. 60-year-old male. Shot in the chest. Conscious and breathing. Scene is secure. En route 21:44.”
Ron pointed the way for his partner as he answered, “Medic 11. Responding.”
The crowd in front of their unit jumped as the lights and siren came on. The sea of people and vehicles parted slowly as they eased forward.
“What are you going to do?” he asked Danielle.
/> “I’m going to assist your intubation,” she replied, “control any bleeding, and then get a big IV started.”
“Good answer.” He rummaged in the dash clutter for his stethoscope before grabbing his portable radio. He turned the volume fully up and clipped it to his belt.
The state of Vermont holds 1,944 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 1,302 are repeat offenders.
—FORTY-FIVE—
Jack made slow progress down the steps, pausing on every landing to gaze through the glass. His heart was thumping like it hadn’t in some time, and he felt the sweat running down his back under the body armor. He saw people on every floor, but no sign of Sam, and Jack eventually emerged onto the ground floor and entered the lobby. Making sure his credentials were showing, he approached the agents at the desk. They were questioning a pretty young girl and her boss. She looked close to tears.
“Anything?” he asked the questioner when he looked up.
“This young lady checked the man in. He’s using the name Dan Dorraugh. She’s unsure if it’s the guy in the deck.”
Jack reached in his pocket and unfolded a larger picture than the one in the deck. He also had a few with the different hair styles and facial grooming.
“Maybe that one,” she pointed.
“Look at the eyes,” Jack instructed.
“Yeah . . . that’s him. He was so nice. Said his daughter was playing at the Kennedy center.”
“Did you see him leave just a short time ago?”
“No, we’ve been so busy. I’m sorry.”
Jack passed the picture to the girl’s boss. “I need twenty copies, in color.” The man left without a word, stepping into the office behind the front desk. Jack turned to the senior man. “Give a copy to all your guys and start questioning the guests. Search every floor and room. All the staff places—everything. Hold the perimeter until you have enough men. Keep it locked down tight. I’m gonna go look around.”
• • •
“Hey—I may have something.”
Sydney and Larry dropped their respective handfuls of paper and walked to stare over Eric’s shoulder.
“It’s another DC map, but I’m unsure about what’s on it.”
Larry leaned over for a closer look at the small screen. “Those look like the subway lines,” he explained. “The red ones are the underground, and the blue ones are above. The squares are the stations.”
“Where’s the hotel?” Sydney asked.
Eric scrolled the map around the screen until the Holiday Inn was in the middle. “Looks like the nearest station’s over a block away. He’d have to leave the hotel to get to it.”
“Yeah.” Sydney bit her lip as she studied the map. “What are the dotted lines I see? This one goes from the hotel to the main line here . . . and here.” She pointed.
“Dunno.” Eric’s fingers flew on the keyboard, and a legend appeared in the corner. “Looks like service tunnels.” He punched more keys and numbers appeared on the map at every line. “Those are tunnel depths.”
“Shit, that’s maybe two floors below street level. What do you want to bet that’s his way out?” Larry mussed Eric’s spiked hair. “The newbie does it again. Better get on the horn to Jack.”
“I haven’t been able to get through.” She turned and pointed to one of the office agents assisting them. “Run upstairs and tell the HRT guys this.” The printer next to her began spitting out a copy of the map. She pulled it from the tray and handed it to the young man. “Give them this. Go!”
She then turned and pulled the cell from her pocket again. The speed dial did its thing and she soon heard the welcome sound of it ringing.
“Come on, Jack. Answer the phone.”
• • •
As they slowed to a stop, Ron hit the button on the dash-mounted control module to turn on his scene lights. They showed him a view he had seen too often in the past: the victim, the blood, the onlookers. Ron’s mind automatically took in the sights before him and cataloged them. The scene was safe for him and his partner. No other medical assistance was on scene yet. A fair amount of blood could be seen both on the snow and on the patient’s clothes. The man was still breathing, fast and shallow. He could see his breath in the cold air, but there was blood from the victim’s mouth—not a good sign.
“Scoop and run?” his partner asked as she pulled on her gloves.
“Let’s see what all we’ve got, first. May have to work him here. Traffic is pretty bad, even if the cops help clear a path.”
“Okay.” She jumped out her side and began offloading equipment.
Ron exited the truck and walked to the man lying in the snow. He sized him up further as he approached. A young woman was holding the man up with his head to one side. Her gloved hands covered the entrance wound in his chest. He coughed and a fresh rivulet of blood traveled down his cheek. Ron pulled out his trauma shears.
“Back up a little people; I need some room. Miss, I need you to lay him down gently and let me in there, okay?” Ron spoke with his medic voice. While soft-spoken, it also left no room for argument. The young woman did exactly as he had instructed.
Ron took up a position at the man’s head and quickly determined that a pulse was present, but his airway was in compromise. As if on que, equipment bags hit the cold concrete on either side of him. Ron felt himself go into autopilot. The noise of the crowd and the sounds of the streets around him faded. He passed his shears to Danielle, who without a word began cutting off the coat and shirt. His hands pulled the laryngoscope from the bag, along with the tube he had prepared earlier. The scope he flipped on and set next to the man’s head on the left side, the tube went on his chest. He returned to the bag for the tube holder and checker. An assembled bag-valve mask appeared in the hands of his partner and the sound of the portable suction registered in his brain. The suction catheter was shoved under the man’s shoulder on the right side, along with a set of Magill forceps. He was ready.
With a nod to Danielle, Ron positioned the man’s head in the sniffing position and held it, until she placed her hand on the forehead to keep it in place. With her other hand placed over the victim’s vocal cords, she applied pressure to move the windpipe toward the back of his neck. This also served to cut off the esophagus, should the patient suddenly vomit.
“Got it,” she voiced.
Ron let go and took up the scope in his left hand. With his other, he used his thumb and finger to open the man’s mouth. As expected, he encountered blood pooling in the trachea. He inserted the blade and elevated the tongue. Without taking his eyes from the view he had, he grabbed the suction catheter and cleared the blood until he was able to see the man’s vocal cords. At this point, he returned the suction tube to its position under the shoulder, and grabbed the intubation tube which was within his view and deftly inserted it into the man’s mouth.
“A little to the right, Danny,” he instructed.
Danielle pressed the cartilage of the man’s throat to the right and promptly felt the tube pass through the cords.
Ron pushed the tube in until it was at the 23-centimeter mark printed on the side. He then pressed the 10cc syringe he had attached beforehand to inflate the bulb on the end of the tube, thereby securing it from anything foreign that might try to enter the lungs. Leaving the laryngoscope on, he dropped it next to the head on the left side and removed the stylet from the tube. He picked up the tube checker—they called it the Turkey Baster—squeezed it and placed it on the tube. It returned to its original shape without hesitation. He removed it and tossed it aside. His partner immediately attached the bag-valve mask and waited. Without letting go of the tube, Ron placed his stethoscope in his ears, one ear at a time. The bell went over the stomach.
“Squeeze,” he instructed. He heard nothing. He moved the bell to the right lung and nodded his head. Another squeeze, and he heard air enter and escape as it should. He moved it to the left. A bubbling sound was heard, along with what sounded like Rice Krispie
s popping. No real surprise. The whole process had taken less than a minute.
“I’m in.” He pulled the scope from his ears and began looping the tube holder around the man’s neck, being sure to position the tube in the right corner of the mouth to allow for easier suctioning later. When he was satisfied that everything was in place, he donned the stethoscope again and listened to the lungs one more time to be sure. No change. He eyeballed the CO2 detector and saw that it had turned gold. Good. He looked up and scanned the onlookers. He saw a police officer looking back.
“I need a path cleared to the hospital,” he barked.
The officer nodded and reached for the mic clipped to his lapel.
Ron turned his gaze on the crowd and searched faces until he found one that was suitable: a young man in a nice coat. He had a military haircut, and his expression was one of curiosity other than horror. He was only slightly startled when Ron pointed right at him.
“You, I need your help. Come down here.”
The man hesitated for a second before complying.
“What do I do?”
“What’s your name?”
“Craig.”
“Craig, I need you to hold this bag in both hands, and I want you to squeeze it like this every three seconds. You got it? Every three, just like this.”
“Okay.”
Ron watched as the man did exactly as he was told. Good. “You feel how hard you’re squeezing? If it gets any harder, I need to know immediately.”
“Okay.”
Ron turned to see Danielle placing a plastic wrapped dressing over the entrance wound. She used their largest tape to secure it. The wound was to the lower part of the left chest. Definitely the lung on that side, Ron thought, possibly the spleen, or maybe a major vessel.
“Let’s hope not,” he said to himself as he reached for the backboard and slid it over to lay on the man’s right side.
He looked up to see Danielle ready with another dressing. He reached across the man’s body and rolled him up on his side. Gazing over the shoulder, he could see a large exit wound in the back, slightly lower and toward the outside of the entrance. His partner wiped it clean, slapped the dressing down and quickly sealed it.
