Patient One (10 page)

Below David heard the voices of the terrorists. They were speaking in Chechen, and sounded as if they were arguing. He peered down through a ventilation duct in the ceiling and studied the men in black. There were three of them—the leader; the balding, stocky one; and the wounded one. The leader was yelling at the wounded terrorist, shoving him into the room with the dumbwaiter and hollering out, “
Leela!”

David didn’t understand the word
leela
, but quickly figured out what the argument was about. Earlier he had seen the wounded terrorist standing in the room with the dumbwaiter and watching the others as they booby-trapped it. Now the man was wondering why he had to continue guarding the dumbwaiter.
Because it represents a way in
, David thought strategically. A possible passageway that, although mined, might still be circumvented. The leader knew it, the terrorist with the wounded arm didn’t.

As David turned his body in the direction of the President’s room, his knee banged against a metal duct. It made a metallic, ringing noise. David froze in place and held his breath. The terrorists went quiet, then began speaking in urgent tones.
Goddamn it! They know I’m here!
David’s brain screamed.
I’m a dead man!

Suddenly the air conditioning system clicked on and cool air blew down into the corridor. There was another pause. Then one of the terrorists laughed and spoke in a lighter tone. David pricked his ears, listening intently, and waited. The men continued talking, but now their voices seemed more distant. The terrorists were walking away.

David breathed a deep sigh of relief. They must have believed that the metallic sound they had heard was made by the air conditioning switching on. But David still didn’t move. He remained absolutely motionless, wondering if two of the terrorists had walked away and left one behind to listen and see if the noise would recur. He let a full five minutes pass before he peered down through the duct again. The corridor was clear.

Carefully David started off again, moving slowly and staying well clear of the metal ducts.
You’re rusty!
he berated himself. 
You would have never made that mistake when you were in Special Forces! But that was a lot of years ago, and you’re not the same person you once were. So be careful, and don’t do anything stupid.

He pushed on, now picking up the scent of death. Not just plain, ordinary death, but violent death that had its own peculiar odor. Maybe it was caused by gunfire mixed in with blood and fear and decay. But whatever caused it, the smell was distinctive to David and made his mind flash back to Somalia, and to the firefight, and to the dead piled up in heaps.
So many dead. Forty or more. Mostly Somalis, a few of ours. And for what? Nothing had changed there. All that death, and it hadn’t mattered a damn
.

David came to another ventilation duct and looked down through it. He was over the chart room that was filled with dead bodies. Arms and legs were entangled into a bizarre patchwork. Heads were blown open, their brains oozing out and mixing with pools of blood. And now the smell of death became more intense. Then David saw a corpse with no head. It was gone. It was totally gone, leaving only the stump of a neck behind. David flinched as a gruesome flashback came into his mind. It was the horrifying image of his best friend in the Special Forces, a sharpshooter from Tennessee who hadn’t returned with his comrades from the field of battle. They went back for him and found him outside a Somali village. Beheaded! The bastards had sawed his head off ! The image grew sharper and sharper and now David could see the carotid arteries dangling down from his best friend’s severed head.

Perspiration poured off David’s brow as the full-blown panic attack began.
The head, the severed head with its eyes gouged out!
David’s hands started to shake so violently he had to grab a nearby metal beam to steady them. Then the shortness of breath came. He strained frantically, gasping for air and feeling as if he was about to suffocate. With effort he forced himself to expand his lungs. He did this over and over until his respirations gradually returned to normal. But it took another full minute for the trembling to stop.

He lay back, drenched in sweat, and cursed at his post-traumatic
stress disorder. Goddamn it! When will it end? When? The clinical psychologist at Walter Reed had told him the attacks would dimin
ish with time, and they had. But they were always lurking near the surface, waiting for the right trigger to set them off. A trigger that reminded him of warfare. Like a missing head.

He took a deep breath, turned onto his stomach, and gazed down at the dead bodies again, avoiding the one that had been beheaded. Atop the stack was Aaron Wells, who was staring up at him with lifeless eyes. David was about to continue when he abruptly stopped.

Goddamn it! I’m going in the wrong direction! Think what you’re doing or you’ll get yourself caught and maybe killed!

He turned and headed back to the President’s room at the far end of the corridor. He moved cautiously, brushing up against bundles of wires and staying clear of the metal ducts. Just ahead he heard a conversation going on in one of the rooms. He slowed even more, now inching his way toward the sound. It was a man’s voice speaking English. There was no accent. Not a terrorist, David decided. He reached a ventilation duct and gazed down. He was over the First Daughter’s room. She was watching a news program on television. The reporter was describing the illness that had befallen the President and all the guests at the official dinner. He said that President Merrill was now a patient at University Hospital, and was resting comfortably. There was no mention of a hostage situation.
They’ll find out soon enough
, David through grimly, and moved on.

He approached the President’s suite and stared down at the guard outside the door. David inched his way forward, pulling his body along rather than wriggling and squirming. Once over the room, he noiselessly removed a panel from the ceiling and looked down at the sleeping President. There was blood caked around his mouth, with no evidence of fresh bleeding. But Merrill’s color was pale, very pale.

David’s eyes darted over to the cardiac monitor. The monitor was adjacent to the bed over five feet away, but its large illuminated numbers made it easy to read. The President still had a tachycardia of 120/minute, and was borderline hypotensive with a blood pressure of 94/60. That was a high enough pressure to perfuse his brain and kidneys. But one more big bleed and the bottom would drop out, and the President would die.

David’s gaze went to the bag of fresh plasma that was dripping into Merrill’s arm. The bag was half empty. Maybe that would be enough plasma to stem the hemorrhaging, David hoped. At least for a while. But for how long?

Merrill coughed and gagged and was suddenly awake. He retched and blood gushed out of his mouth and onto the sheet covering him.

David groaned silently and quickly replaced the panel in the ceiling. Maybe the President had no time left at all! He hurriedly reached for his cell phone and dialed 411. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he asked the directory-assistance operator to connect him with the Secret Service office in Los Angeles.

Nine

The National Security Council
listened in stunned silence to the demands of Kuri Aliev coming over the speakerphone.

“The prisoners are to be dressed in civilian clothes and placed on military transport planes, with a crew of only pilot and co-pilot. Once they are airborne, you will be given instructions on their final destinations. The list of prisoners will be faxed to you and to your counterparts in Moscow. There are two hundred and eighty-six names in all. Everything must be done within four hours. If the deadline is not met, we will kill a hostage every half-hour until it is.”

The council could discern Aliev’s voice resonating in the background. He was speaking on a phone connected to a PA system, so that all the hostages on the pavilion could hear his threats. “You have exactly four hours.”

Ellen Halloway, the first female Vice President of the United States, leaned toward the speakerphone and said, “Even if we wished to comply, that’s not enough time.”

“Ha!” Aliev scoffed. “You could mobilize your entire fleet of stealth bombers and have them halfway to Iraq in four hours. So stop talking foolishness.”

“But those aircraft are on standby and ready to—”

“If you want to waste time arguing, that is your business,” Aliev cut in. “But the clock is running. You now have three hours and fifty-nine minutes.”

Ellen Halloway ran a hand through her sandy blond hair, which was pulled back and held severely in place by a silver clip. In her mid-fifties, she was tall and attractive, with high cheek bones and deep brown eyes. “I need to talk to the President.”

“Why?”

“To make certain he’s still alive.”

There was a long pause before Aliev said, “Hold.”

Halloway leaned over to Arthur Alderman, the Director of National Intelligence, and asked in a barely audible voice, “Any ideas?”

“Keep the conversation going,” Alderman whispered back. “Perhaps that will give the President a chance to send us some sort of message.”

Martin Toliver, the Secretary of Defense, was seated to the Vice President’s left. He moved his chair in closer, and hissed, “Tell that Chechen bastard we don’t negotiate with terrorists!”

“That’s up to the President, not us,” Halloway said, keeping her voice low.

“But he’s got a gun pointed at his head,” Toliver argued.

“He’s still the Commander in Chief,” Halloway said.

An Air Force colonel with a small suitcase handcuffed to his wrist entered the Situation Room in the White House and saluted sharply. “Madam Vice President, the nuclear codes have been changed. New launch codes have been activated.”

Halloway nodded. That was one less thing to worry about. They had to assume that the military officer, who carried the nuclear football and followed the President wherever he went, had also been taken hostage or killed. “Thank you, Colonel.”

The Air Force officer stepped off to the side.

“What the hell is taking him so long?” Toliver growled.

Halloway held her palm out, urging patience, as she tried to think through the nightmarish dilemma they were facing. Not only was the President being held hostage by the terrorists, but so were his family and the Secretary of—

“Ellen?” John Merrill’s voice came over the speakerphone. There was some static as the call was being transmitted to Washington from the Beaumont Pavilion via a Secret Service line. “Ellen?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Halloway replied. “I’m here with the Security Council.”

“Good,” the President went on. “I want all of you to know that I have complete confidence in Vice President Halloway. I’m sure that she, together with the Council, will find a way to resolve this matter.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Halloway said, keeping her voice even and assuming the terrorists could hear her. “Now, first off, how are you feeling?”

“I’ve had better days,” Merrill answered.

The council members gathered around the oval conference table nodded to one another. The President sounded strong and in control of himself.

“You of course know that we’ve been taken hostage by these terrorists,” Merrill told her.

“We know.”

“And you should also know any rescue attempt would be very dangerous, even if carried out by a highly specialized team,” Merrill went on. “Very dangerous and very difficult.”

“We’re aware of that, Mr. President.”

“A lot of people would die,” Merrill warned, but not too strongly. “Your military advisors will tell you how much damage three submachine guns can—”

There was a sudden rustling noise, then a grunt. The line went quiet.

The council members stared at the speakerphone and waited anxiously. Seconds ticked off.

“Very clever, Mr. President,” Aliev came back on. “You were trying to tell your people that you saw three terrorists outside your door, so that is how many there must be. Well, I hope you govern better than you count.”

“I was simply warning them not to do anything foolish,” Merrill said evenly.

“If they do try, Mr. President, I can assure you that you and your family will be the first to die,” Aliev threatened, then paused a long moment before speaking to the council again. “Lady Vice President, you now have three hours and fifty-four minutes to release the prisoners.”

“We need more time,” Halloway said urgently. “We’re asking you to reconsider and give us an additional hour.”

There was no reply.

The Situation Room remained silent. No one uttered a sound. The staff and military aides standing behind the council stayed motionless, their ears pricked. Everyone waited for Aliev’s voice to come back on the line. Half a minute passed. Still there was no response.

Abruptly the silence was broken by a loud dial tone.

Ellen Halloway exhaled loudly and pushed the speakerphone away. “The President told us he wants us to try a rescue mission.”

“That’s what it sounded like to me.” Toliver was a lean man, in his early sixties, with a narrow, cold face and black hair that was graying at the temples. “And he wants it done ASAP.”

Halloway looked over to Alderman. “What do you think?”

“I think he wants us to keep our options open,” Alderman said thoughtfully. “He mentioned the rescue attempt twice, but he also told us how desperate it would be. Perhaps he was saying to plan a rescue but be prepared to negotiate.”

“Goddamn it!” Toliver blurted out. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists. That’s our policy.”

“That’s the Israelis’ policy, too,” Alderman retorted. “But when push comes to shove, they do it. Then cover it with some humane rationale.”

Toliver’s face hardened. “Are you saying, give in?”

Alderman shook his head. “I’m saying we should cover all the bases. We should make plans for a rescue and for giving in to their demands. Then use whichever one we think serves the President and our country best.”

“Good,” Halloway agreed immediately. “Any dissenters?”

No one at the table raised a hand, although Toliver obviously had to strain not to do so.

“Good,” Halloway said again. “Now, giving in is easy. Trying to rescue the President is doubly difficult. How do we go about it?”

All eyes went to General Walter Pierce, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. A Medal of Honor winner in Vietnam, he was tall and ramrod straight, with a square jaw and a craggy handsome face that never seemed to smile. Without hesitation he said, “We’re going to need a Special Ops team.”

“Which branch?” Halloway asked.

“Either Navy SEAL Team Six or the Army’s Delta Force,” Pierce answered promptly. “They are the elite of the elite, and either gives us the best chance to rescue the President.”

“Pick one.”

Pierce hesitated briefly. He favored Delta Force because they, like him, were Army. And besides the Navy SEALs had already had their moment in the sun with the killing of bin Laden. But Pierce pushed his bias aside and said, “Whichever one is closest to Los Angeles.”

Toliver interrupted. “Ellen, if this is to be a military operation, I’ll be the one in charge.”

Halloway narrowed her eyes at Toliver. She did not trust the word or judgment of the Secretary of Defense. The man was experienced, but too far to the right for the Vice President’s liking. And he tended to shoot from the hip. “In the President’s absence, I sit in his chair.”

“Not when it comes to military action,” Toliver countered. “Check the regulations.”

“But the President is not just absent,” Alderman pointed out. “He literally has a gun aimed at his head, which brings up the question of whether he’s capable of discharging the functions of his office.”

Toliver bristled at the Director of National Intelligence, whom he knew was both friend and confidant to the Vice President. A close friend and confidant who could control her. “Are you suggesting that we invoke the Twenty-Fifth Amendment?”

A hush fell over the room, everyone sensing the enormous significance of the moment. The Twenty-Fifth Amendment to the Constitution allowed the transfer of powers from an incapacitated President to the Vice President.

“What I’m suggesting is that we get the Attorney General over here to tell us what is constitutionally correct,” Alderman replied evenly. “In the meantime, let’s come up with some sort of rescue plan that we may or may not implement.” He turned to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “You’ve got the floor, Walter.”

“Hold on a second while we locate the whereabouts of our Special Forces teams,” Pierce said.

He turned to the other Chiefs of Staff and issued a quick set of orders. The orders were immediately passed on to aides standing by, all of whom rushed off to a nearby communications room.

“We can’t make any decisions until we hear from the Attorney General,” Toliver persisted.

“We’re just exploring options,” Halloway said, thinking that if—God forbid!—she were to become the permanent President, Toliver would be gone from the Cabinet within three months. It wasn’t that he was inept. Far from it. But she considered him an ideologue, and dangerous. “The clock is ticking,” she warned, “so let’s concentrate on solutions, not our relative positions.”

Alderman took out his pipe, but he left it unlighted. He nibbled on the stem, convinced they were going to end up with a dead President, regardless of whether or not the terrorist’s demands were met. That was how Muslim terrorists worked and thought. Death in a jihad meant martyrdom, which guaranteed eternal paradise. Dying with their victims was usually part of the plan. He made a mental note to instruct the Attorney General to stay close by, in the event a new President had to be sworn in.

“I can tell you this,” Toliver said with conviction. “No matter what we do, the Russians will never negotiate with these terrorists, even if we beg them on bended knees.”

Halloway asked, “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know that some of their Chechen prisoners participated in the massacre at Beslan,” Toliver answered. “They’ll never let them out. Never in a million years.”

Halloway had to nod at Toliver’s assessment. Russia continued to mourn the loss of the little children slaughtered in their schoolhouse at Beslan, even though the event had taken place years ago. It was Russia’s 9/11, and they would never forget it. The Chechen prisoners involved were still alive only because Russia had abolished the death sentence.

“And even if we give in to their demands,” Toliver added on, “we all know there’s little chance they’ll release the President. They’ll just keep using him over and over until he’s of no more use.”

“We have to leave the option to negotiate on the table,” Halloway argued. “If only to buy ourselves more time.”

“More time for what?” Toliver argued back. “The Chechens aren’t going to budge off their deadline. So if we delay just an hour, it’ll cost two innocent hostages their lives. Is it worth it?”

The Vice President stared at him for a long moment but didn’t reply. She had no answer.

Suddenly a wooden panel on the wall slid open and revealed a large video screen with maps of the United States, Asia, and Africa. Military emblems were flashing on all three continents.

“Bad news,” Pierce reported as he walked over to the screen and began pointing. “There are currently four units of Navy SEAL Team Six. One is now on a training mission in the Okefenokee Swamp in Georgia, another is participating in war games off the Florida Keys. The remaining two are in Africa. They’re dealing with pirates in Somalia and hostage takers in Nigeria. They’re all more than five hours away.”

“What about Delta Force?” Halloway asked.

“They have two elite units and both are in the mountains between Pakistan and Afghanistan, hunting down Al-Qaeda terrorists.”

Halloway nervously played with a loose strand of her hair. “What about other Special Ops teams here in America? Aren’t some in or close to California?”

“A number are,” Pierce replied, nodding. “But you asked for the elite of the elite. The others are very good, but they don’t have the expertise and experience of the Navy SEAL Team Six or Delta Force.”

“Which would decrease our chance for success even further.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What about the 82nd Airborne?” Toliver proposed.

“Won’t work,” Pierce said immediately. “First, they’re located in Kentucky, and it will take them almost five hours to reach Los Angeles, not counting the time it would take to get things set up. Secondly, this operation will require teamwork and split-second timing that has been practiced over and over. One mistake and we’ve got a lot of dead people on our hands. The 82nd just doesn’t have the necessary experience.”

Halloway suggested, “What about a local SWAT team?”

“They’re not up to it,” Pierce said and took his seat. “They’re good when it comes to bank thieves holding hostages or a bomb threat, but not when it comes to cold-blooded terrorists. They’d be out of their league.”

“The CIA?” Halloway asked.

“You can’t use a CIA team on American soil,” Alderman answered.

“Why not?” Toliver asked brusquely. “Because it might upset the FBI?”

“Because there’s a law that says you can’t.” Alderman puffed on his smokeless pipe, trying to find a solution to their problem. The military Special Ops teams, the CIA, and local SWAT teams were out of the question. The FBI had a Hostage Rescue Team, but they were stationed at Quantico, more than five hours away. And besides, they weren’t really killers. That’s what was required here. Stone-cold killers who moved quickly and stealthily, like black cats in the night.