Hybrid (38 page)

“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 demanding 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?”

“That’s where things start to get a little fuzzy. She turned up only two names; one here in the States: David Moncrief. He’s a French national living in upstate New York.” Martha paused to see if Martin recognized the name. “I hadn’t heard it, either. Avanti never even knew these guys existed, so I’m guessing she’s found herself another source.”