Pestilence (Jack Randall #2) (47 page)

“Don’t move, buddy, we’ll get you out in a minute!”

Angel looked up to see two firemen gazing in through the crack in the side of the plane. He also saw white powder flowing from a crack in the overhead. It settled on his hair and coated his flight suit.

Twenty minutes later he sat on the gurney and watched as the firemen swarmed around what was left of the aircraft. The pilot and co-pilot were severely injured and had already been flown away by a helicopter. He waited for the inevitable and it didn’t take long. Watching as the bags were taken from the plane, followed by the cooler, he barely noticed the needle as the medics started an IV and took his blood pressure. He held the oxygen mask over his face and watched as a state trooper walked around the wreckage with what looked like a plain-clothes detective. The trooper eventually approached the ambulance and without a word handcuffed Angel to the gurney. The detective produced a digital camera and took his picture before speaking to the paramedic.

“We’ll be sending somebody in with you.”

“Anything I need to know?” the medic asked.

“Cocaine in the cabin with him. A lot,” the trooper replied. “We also have this cooler, it’s marked Human Organs. I doubt it’s for real, but will it hurt anything if we open it?”

“I doubt it. Just close it quick if it’s what it says it is. Want me to do it?”

“Sure.” The trooper was a bit squeamish about what might be inside.

The medic reached down to his boot and produced a switchblade, something only people in his occupation were allowed to carry, and quickly sliced through the seal. He popped it open, and looking inside, saw two small plastic bags on ice, each holding some dark tissue. He held it open for the trooper and detective to see.

“What are they?”

“Kidneys.”

“No shit?”

They all looked at Angel, but he chose not to meet their gaze. He contemplated his deformed ankle instead and silently cursed his luck. The detective took a few shots of the cooler’s contents before moving away to have a short conversation with the trooper. Angel watched from his seat on the gurney and stewed. His mind was already looking for a way out of this jam, but the damn leg and the handcuffs were limiting his options.

“You can take him in now. We’ll be right behind you.”

•      •      •

They called him the Major, despite the fact that he had long ago retired. But in Afghanistan everyone seemed to have a rank or title, and that was his. He now worked for one of the many subcontractors that handled a number of jobs the military didn’t wish to. His years in the army had made him fluent in the local language and customs, so he had been hired and given the task of liaison between the Afghan soldiers and the Americans here at this remote base on the Pakistani border. He also looked after their wounded, and if necessary, their dead.

The Major watched through the Plexiglas door window of the multi-bed ER. The building they were in was constructed from a large pre-fabricated kit. It had been flown out to this remote location in the Abbas Garr by a series of Chinook helicopters and erected in only one day. Its six-bed operating room was tending to only one patient at the moment. A teenage boy who had been brought into one of their remote outposts by his father and a village elder. On first exam the boy was dead, but a more thorough check by the medic in the field had revealed a faint pulse. A collapsed lung and a large amount of bleeding had him close to death before the sucking chest wound was corrected. His strong heart, conditioned by the daily climbs in the mountainous Afghan terrain, was the only thing that had kept him alive through the night. The X-ray on the wall showed some metal in his chest, right up against the aorta, and some extensive lung damage. His odds were not great, but the surgeon was skilled in chest trauma. It was sort of his area specialty.

The metal was most likely American in origin. The report said the only action last night was some mortars being dropped on a suspected insurgent. The boy’s clothes reeked of carbon, telling them he had been either firing a rifle, or had been around something exploding. Maybe both. Either way, they had an opportunity to gain some favor with the villagers if they were able to save the boy. If not, they were required to dress and package him for a quick return to his village, where there would be a burial before sunset as their custom demanded.

This custom was something the Major exploited every chance he got. What better way could one ask for to dispose of evidence? He fingered the boy’s blood test readout he had pulled from the chart. He would soon enter its information into his computer and email it off. Within a few minutes he would get an answer, along with the plane’s availability. He turned to look through another Plexiglas window into the morgue to see his colleague waiting. They exchanged a silent look. They would know soon.

Turning back, he saw the surgeon peeling his gloves and gown off and tossing them into a waiting hamper. The rest of the team were performing a count of all their instruments before two of them would close the boy’s chest. The surgeon pushed his way through the door, only to find the Major waiting.

“How’s it look?”

“Well, there was a lot of damage. I’m amazed he lasted the night up on that mountain. But the kid seems to have a strong heart. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was at least sixteen. We managed to sew everything up, and as long as the aorta holds, I think he’ll make it. We’ll know more tomorrow.”

“Okay, I’ll go talk to his father. What’s the kid’s name?”

“Khalid.”

The doctor turned to leave and the Major looked through the morgue window again to shake his head at his partner. The man silently picked up his blades and put them away. Perhaps tomorrow.

Despite his disappointment, the Major forced a smile on his face before he went outside to talk to the boy’s father.

In early 2011, more than 110,000 people were on the nationwide
waiting list for an organ. An average of
nearly 20 of them dies each day while waiting.
NIH News in Health

—THREE—

D
r. Matthew Dayo picked up the chart from the desk in his small office and tucked it under his arm. The chart was thick, as were most of his patients, and he held it under his arm with a practiced motion while reaching for his coffee. He savored the rich brew as he left his office. Coffee at work was a rarity for him as he was usually in surgery on most days and could not afford the slightest tremor in his hands from the caffeine.

Days without surgery were few and far between and he felt odd when not in scrubs. Not one for worrying about appearances too much, he had thrown his white coat on over a golf shirt and a pair of jeans that morning for a day spent in the office pushing paper. But after a few hours he needed to move around and decided to visit a patient or two. As he rounded the corner and stepped from the carpet to the tile floor, his Nike’s squeaked loudly, drawing a few looks from passing staff. He ignored them, as his mind was on his patient.

A short walk down the corridors of Johns Hopkins’ cardiac wing brought him to a series of glass-walled rooms. He nodded to the charge nurse who was on the phone and got a smile in return. The fifth room held Mr. Hernandez and, as usual, his wife in a chair nearby.

“Good afternoon.”

“Hello, doctor.”

Dr. Dayo’s eyes automatically rose to check the monitor hanging from the ceiling. His patient was still showing a wide rhythm with no signs of improvement, and his blood pressure was lower than he would have liked. He flipped the chart open to the trending graphs and confirmed what he saw. His patient was deteriorating. Despite his poor color and obvious weakness, he managed to put on a show of strength for the doctor. He straightened up in bed and in defiance of his shortness of breath, spoke forcefully, with an attempt to hide his South American accent.

“No news today?”

“I’m afraid not. You’ve only been on the list a short time. I know telling you to be patient sounds rather foolish, but that’s what I need you to be. I have your name in every database there is. Your new heart will come, you must have faith.”

“I understand. But . . . I have always been . . . a man of action. This waiting . . . it’s not in my nature.”

“I can understand that. Just one day of paperwork is about all I can stand. A businessman like you, I would never survive. I don’t know how you do it.”

“I get out . . . as much as I can. My company . . . has many branches. Travel is the . . . boss’s prerogative, no?”

Dr. Dayo had to smile at that. While he was considered among the best in his field, he was still tied to the hospital. Once his youngest was out of the house, he and his wife had some plans to do some traveling, but right now his practice required the majority of his time.

He placed the chart on the bed and donned his stethoscope. Mr. Hernandez leaned forward without asking and took the obligatory deep breaths, getting to number four before collapsing in a fit of coughing, the fluid in his lungs plainly heard. His wife looked away as he spit into a nearby basin before falling back into the bed. The color of his face slowly returned to his current gray and he took the offered mask from the doctor and placed it over his face. Dr. Dayo waved off the nurse who appeared at the door. She checked the monitor before returning to her paperwork.

Dayo waited patiently for his patient to regain his breath. His pulse oxymetry rose slowly to the low 90s but no higher. He finally dropped the mask and offered a crooked smile to the doc.

“Not yet.”

“No, not yet,” the doctor echoed. “I may put you on the bi-pap machine for longer periods though. It will help with the fluid in your lungs.”

“Whatever you say, doctor,” his wife answered for him.

Doctor Dayo held his patient’s gaze until he got a small nod of consent. It had been hard to get his patient to agree to it while he slept, but he seemed to be more pliable now. He picked up the chart to make the required orders. He flipped it shut with a snap.

“I’ll check on you again this afternoon. Just don’t go anywhere okay?” It was their standard joke.

“I will . . . be right here,” Mr. Hernandez managed with a grin.

“Good man.” He patted his patient’s leg and with a light touch on the wife’s shoulder, left the room.

He stopped at the nurse’s station and handed her the chart.

“Some changes, Terra.”

“Okay.”

As he left, he passed two men entering the unit. They nodded to the doctor and he simply returned it as he knew their English was very limited. Mr. Hernandez’s brothers. He was told they visited at least once a day for several hours. All the way from South America. It was good to have close family at a time like this.

He decided to hit the coffee kiosk on his way back to his office. His current cup had gotten cold.

•      •      •

Mr. Hernandez nodded to his subordinates as they entered the room. The first approached the bed and looked carefully for any new equipment they had not seen before. The other examined the room closely for anything that could be a camera or listening device. After a nod to each other, the first “brother” spoke.

“One of the medical planes crashed in Florida last night. The shipment was compromised and the courier was arrested.”

“Who?”

“Angel.”

Hernandez grimaced at this. His best man was in federal custody. He thought for a moment before replying. “Where is he?”

“We’re looking right now. We’ve seen Federal Marshalls at the local hospital. I’m sure they will move him soon. He already faced charges in Maryland and the District of Columbia. Most likely he’ll be moved there to face a grand jury, or they’ll try to cut a deal with him.”

“Angel is a good man . . . but he knows too much. Get Jimmy . . . have him . . . take care of this.”

“
Si.
”

“The shipment, . . . it contained organs?”

“Some kidneys.”

He just nodded before shaking a finger at them. That meant hurry.

“Get me my fucking heart.”

One of them left to make a phone call. Any attempt to do so in the room drew the wrath of the charge nurse, and they did not wish to make trouble that would call attention to themselves.

Hernandez sucked on his oxygen while cursing his sick heart and rotten luck.

•      •      •

Jimmy sat under the shade of the umbrella and nursed a beer. The sun was bright and shining off the multiple wet and constantly moving bodies of the children in the pool. He unconsciously did a count every few minutes as he couldn’t keep them all straight. The dog ran circles around the pool for awhile before joining him in the shade for a rest. Like Jimmy, he was too old to keep pace for long. The dog nudged Jimmy’s hand for some attention, and he shifted the beer to the opposite hand to accommodate.

One of the boys broke away from the pack long enough to assure he had Jimmy’s attention for his next dramatic entrance to the pool. The splash was actually quite impressive while the entrance bordered on painful. But the boy had the energy of a seven-year-old, and was not about to let a little pain stand between him and his fun.

The dog tired and slowly sank to the ground to rest his head, yet he stayed vigilant of the children, and the boy in particular. Jimmy shared lifeguard duty with the dog and knew he could watch the kids by watching the dog if need be. Something he did when he was distracted by other things.