The Island--A Thriller

by Ben Coes

  115

  7:00 P.M. TEHRAN

  10:30 A.M. U.S. EST

  PRESIDENTIAL PALACE

  TEHRAN

  Ali Suleiman was dining alone in his small apartment inside the Presidential Palace when he heard yelling from outside the door, followed by footsteps. Suleiman got to his feet as the footsteps grew louder. There were several people running down the corridor, and he recognized Marwan, his chief of security, yelling over and over in Persian:

  “Open the door! Open the door!”

  One of the armed soldiers posted outside the door opened the entrance to Suleiman’s apartment and Marwan sprinted inside, looking desperately for Suleiman.

  “IRGCAF near Jiroft detected at least four inbound missiles, sir. These are American Tomahawks, coming from a ship in the Gulf of Oman,” said Marwan. “We must get to the underground bunker immediately, Your Excellency.”

  “What about our air defenses?” said Suleiman, an angry look on his face. “Do we not have the ability to shoot them down?”

  “These are not drones,” said Marwan. “The missiles have evaded three separate Sevom Khordad TELAR units including one south of Kavir Park. One of them is within minutes of Tehran, Imam. Please, sir.”

  “And do you know it is coming for me?” said Sulieman as he extended his arm and allowed Marwan to lead him to the door.

  “No, sir, we do not know that, but your protection is our most sacred priority,” said Marwan.

  Marwan and several more soldiers surrounded Suleiman at the entrance and walked briskly down the high-ceilinged hallway as, suddenly, air-defense sirens pealed from outside the palace. At the end of the hallway they went right, where two men in dark suits, clutching submachine guns, held open the door to an elevator.

  “Hurry, Your Excellency, please hurry,” beseeched one of the gunmen.

  Suleiman had just stepped into the elevator when a spine-chilling whine broke through everything else. It cut through the sirens, the thick walls of the palace, the urgent cries from his protectors. It was a deep, loud sonic whiss—the telltale audible of an inbound missile—growing louder and closer with each passing moment.

  One of the men inserted a key and pressed a button for a secure part of the palace several floors belowground. The elevator doors moved shut. As the elevator started to descend, the incoming missile could still be heard. Suddenly, there was a massive explosion, a thunderous vibration, so loud it sounded as if it had struck just feet away. The elevator went dark, rocking and bouncing from side to side as it continued to go lower. After a few moments, emergency lights came on and Suleiman looked around at the men with him. The faintest hint of a smile came to Suleiman’s face and he found Marwan.

  “You saved my life, Marwan,” said Suleiman humbly. “You all did. How can I ever thank you enough—”

  But Suleiman’s words were abruptly cut off by the sharp twang of the elevator cable snapping. They all heard it in the same moment, then they could feel it. It was the horrible feeling of falling, the feeling of dropping with no brake or parachute to stop. Several of the men, including Suleiman, screamed as the elevator cab dropped ten stories in an uncontrolled race to the ground, smashing into a concrete pad. Every occupant of the elevator was crushed in a pulp of clothing, weapons, body parts, and bones.

  116

  10:35 A.M.

  COLUMBIA-PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL

  168TH STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  The helicopter carrying Dellenbaugh slashed down toward the helipad atop Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital in Manhattan.

  The helicopter was met by a large rolling bed and a team of nurses, surgeons, and, in the backdrop, security. An Asian man with black hair stepped forward, carrying a metal briefcase.

  Dewey climbed from the chopper as it touched down and grabbed the president, lifting him up and carrying him to the bed, where he set him down. The man with the briefcase looked quickly at Dellenbaugh, saying nothing, then the team whisked him inside the hospital.

  Dewey turned and went to the open door of the helicopter. He lifted Murphy up from the floor of the chopper as another team came running across the helipad with a bed. He put Murphy on it as the Asian took a quick glimpse at Murphy. His face was emotionless. With his free hand, the man grabbed Murphy’s shirt at the neck and ripped violently, exposing the wound.

  “I’ll handle both men,” he said to a nurse. “Same room,” he added. He nodded at Murphy. “Irrigate the wound, debride it, get a full spectrum of antibiotics moving through him.”

  He looked at Dewey.

  “Who are you?” said Takayama.

  “No one.”

  “Hi, no one. I’m Dr. Hiroo Takayama,” he said. “Are you my main contact as it relates to the president?”

  “No,” said Dewey. “Actually, I guess until someone gets here, yes.”

  “I’ll try and keep you posted.”

  Takayama walked to the door through which Dellenbaugh and Murphy had just entered, catching up with the team taking Murphy inside.

  * * *

  Takayama stepped into the operating room just behind the teams carrying the president and Murphy. He waited, arms crossed, as they hooked Dellenbaugh up to life monitors, then Murphy. Murphy was still alive, but a dull monotone beeping noise repeated in concert with the green digital flatline on the other monitor. Technically, Dellenbaugh was dead.

  “Timing now,” said Takayama in a Japanese accent. “Thirty-second intervals.”

  “I have that,” said one of the nurses. “Starting now, Doctor.”

  Takayama looked right. An ER trauma nurse was already holding a tray of scalpels. He grabbed a long, slightly curved scalpel from the tray, and cut fast and hard with the thin blade down Dellenbaugh’s right side, slashing away like gutting a fish. There was nothing kind about this cut. When he’d serrated a foot-long section of Dellenbaugh’s torso, he handed the scalpel back to the nurse.

  “Optics,” said Takayama and, already anticipating the possibility, a nurse moved a set of optics to Takayama. She strapped them on Takayama from behind as, with his bare hands, Takayama dug down into the folds and veins of Dellenbaugh’s stomach, pushing slowly by organs.

  “Thirty seconds,” said the nurse.

  “Move in, twelve by six,” said Takayama.

  Suddenly, his view of the area that he was examining inside Dellenbaugh’s gut was magnified.

  “Right three, less one,” said Takayama.

  “One minute,” said the nurse.

  He examined the area, but saw nothing. Takayama focused in on an area near the pancreas, studying it.

  “One minute thirty seconds,” the nurse repeated.

  Though Murphy’s monitor made a steady beeping noise, the horrible-sounding flatline of J. P. Dellenbaugh’s life monitor was the only thing Takayama could hear.

  “In sixty-six, right four, in twelve, left one,” said Takayama.

  The view was magnified by thousands, and then Takayama found a small shard of glass, stabbed into the pancreas, invisible to the human eye.

  “I need five-and-a-half-inch tissue forceps, and bring the briefcase over here and hand me the syringe,” said Takayama.

  “Two minutes,” said the nurse.

  He was handed a specialized set of surgical forceps. Takayama quickly shimmied the razor-thin shard of glass from Dellenbaugh’s pancreas. He set it on the tray and dropped the forceps next to it. A nurse opened the briefcase and held it out for Takayama.

  “Open the box,” he said.

  Another nurse reached for a thin rectangular box, made of lead. She opened it. Inside was a misshapen silvery-black object that looked like a piece of graphite. It was several inches long and shiny.

  But it wasn’t graphite. In fact, the thin piece of rock was plutonium.

  Takayama had the nurses irrigate the opening of the wound over and over. He quickly sewed up the torn area around the wound.

  “Two and a half minutes.”

  With his own hand, Takayama pi
cked up the shard of plutonium, leaned down, and held it near the wound.

  One of the other surgeons in the OR was shaking his head as Dellenbaugh’s life monitor continued to show a flat green line and sound a single-note monotone beep.

  “At three minutes it’s too late, Hiroo,” said the surgeon.

  Takayama held the plutonium near where he’d retrieved the piece of glass.

  “Three minutes,” said the nurse.

  There was no movement or activity.

  “Hiroo,” the surgeon said again.

  “Three and a half minutes,” said the nurse.

  Gently, Takayama removed the fragment of plutonium and placed it in the lead case. He nodded to the woman holding the box, telling her she could shut it.

  Takayama took not one but two suture needles and—as every eye in the room watched—sewed up both sides at the same time with each hand, in a weave of suture, almost too fast to see, tying the suture off seamlessly, as he reached to his right.

  “You’ve killed him,” said the same doctor.

  Takayama didn’t acknowledge him.

  “Paddles,” said Takayama.

  Takayama walked to the defibrillator machine.

  “Four minutes, Doctor.”

  He looked at the settings on the defibrillator. It was set for a 150-joule charge. Takayama, with bloody hands, spun the dials around as high as they would go, amperage, torque, frequency. He put it up to 360 joules, the max it would go. Takayama walked back to Dellenbaugh as he waited for the monotone telling him they were charged. When the incessant beep hit, Takayama leaned down and looked closely at the president.

  “For God’s sake,” said the surgeon.

  Then the nurse: “Four and a half minutes, Doctor.”

  He reached out his hands and the nurse handed him the paddles. Still, Takayama waited. Then he placed the paddles down on Dellenbaugh’s chest and hit the chargers. A fierce shock slammed through Dellenbaugh’s limp body, bouncing him. There was no response.

  Takayama hit him again.

  Still, nothing.

  “You waited too long,” said the surgeon.

  “You’re relieved,” said Takayama to the surgeon. He glanced to a man at the door. “Get him out of here.”

  Takayama hit him one more time; the life monitor started making noises and showing a pulse and heart activity.

  Takayama looked at one of the nurses.

  “Let’s get something down his throat so he can breathe,” said Takayama, turning to the second surgical table, where Murphy lay unconscious and bleeding.

  Murphy’s heart monitor was still producing blips, indicating life.

  Takayama took a clamp and spread the wound out. He dug in with forceps and pulled out a long, misshapen piece of steel, the bullet, then looked at one of the nurses.

  “Where’s anesthesia?” said Takayama.

  “Right here,” said a doctor to Takayama’s left.

  “We need to get him on a heart-lung,” said Takayama. “I want to go in through the femoral and I’ll cut in through the sternum.”

  “Ten-four,” said the anesthesiologist.

  Takayama turned to Dellenbaugh. He’d been intubated and was breathing, and alive.

  He turned back to Murphy as a team cut into his femoral artery, at his groin, and inserted a device. A long, rectangular, futuristic-looking machine was rolled into the room. Takayama watched as they began the process of rerouting Murphy’s heart and lung functions through the heart-lung machine, then stilled Murphy’s heart chemically. He had several minutes before he could operate. He stepped out into the hallway. It was hushed. Takayama looked around and found the man who’d accompanied both the president and the second injured man to the hospital.

  “The president is alive and should make it,” said Takayama to Dewey. “Who’s the other guy?”

  “His name is Mike Murphy,” said Dewey.

  “His heart got nicked,” said Takayama. “I’m going to try and repair it but he already had a coronary.” Takayama looked at Dewey’s thigh. He stepped forward and ripped Dewey’s pants where the wound had occurred. Beneath was a mess of blood, still oozing. Takayama looked at one of the attending medics. “Get this guy sewn up,” he ordered, pointing at Dewey. “Make sure there’s nothing in there.”

  Takayama turned and went back into the OR. He made eye contact with a surgeon hovering over Dellenbaugh.

  “Please move him into ICU,” said Takayama. “Run cloxacillin and sulbactam, along with painkillers.”

  Takayama focused in on Murphy. He took something that looked like a regular drill—a sternum saw—and began sawing into Murphy’s chest plate.

  “Please, I need a twelve and mosquitos,” he said as he cut down and across, as another surgeon and a nurse inserted retractors and gave Takayama room to work.

  A nurse handed him a curved scalpel and forceps.

  He took the tiny curved blade and cut into Murphy’s heart. “Could I also get a drink of water,” said Takayama as he went to work. “This is going to take a while.”

  117

  4:00 P.M.

  COLUMBIA-PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL

  168TH STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital was the center of the world’s attention, even as FBI, NYPD, and various military assets killed off the final vestiges of the attack on New York City. No one had truly started thinking about what was next, though all knew that what faced the United States—and in particular New York City—was a decade-long recovery. It was estimated that the body count was higher than even 9/11, and approached five thousand. It would take weeks for even basic cleanup and to put out the last of the fires spreading from the tunnels.

  But the eyes of the world were on Columbia-Presbyterian, where the president of the United States lay in ICU. The country, the world, even America’s enemies, waited with bated breath to see if J. P. Dellenbaugh would live.

  A secondary story did manage to take the media’s attention away from the hospital every few minutes. Iran’s Presidential Palace had been hit with a direct strike by a missile. Though unconfirmed by the Iran government, reports were that Ali Suleiman, Iran’s leader, was dead. The Pentagon had not commented.

  Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital was shut off to the public. Outside, behind a rope line thick with armed soldiers and SWAT, a cabal of reporters and media, cameras and vehicles, from every network in the world, gathered and delivered the news back home, and yet there was no news. For hours, not a word had been released by the White House or by Columbia-Presbyterian.

  As the BBC put it:

  DELLENBAUGH FIGHTING FOR HIS LIFE

  The truth was, however, Dellenbaugh was in ICU and breathing on his own. Though still unconscious, he would, it seemed, survive. Rather, it was Mike Murphy who was hanging by a thread.

  After Murphy’s main life functions were rerouted through a heart-lung machine, Takayama operated on Murphy’s damaged heart. Surgery lasted several hours. Finally, Takayama looked up.

  “Let’s get him off the heart-lung,” said Takayama as he prepared to stitch up the opening in Murphy’s sternum. “It’s repaired.”

  The team went to work taking Murphy off the heart-lung machine. Slowly, they transitioned the body’s heart and lungs off the machine as Murphy’s heart started pumping again. A steady beat chimed on one of the monitors as the screen displayed a serial line of jagged but steady beats.

  118

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER

  COLUMBIA-PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL

  168TH STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  Dewey stepped out of a black sedan and was surrounded by U.S. Navy SEALs, who pushed through the throng of reporters and were let through by a heavily weaponized member of the Secret Service.

  Dewey entered the atrium of the hospital and was led down a hallway where a woman in a business suit met him and nodded.

  “Mr. Andreas?”

  “Yes,” said Dewey.

  “Please follow me,” s
he said.

  They stepped into an elevator. The young woman pressed a button and he looked straight ahead.

  “Are they alive?” Dewey said.

  She paused.

  “Yes,” she said. “My understanding is that they’re both okay. President Dellenbaugh asked for you.”

  When the elevator doors opened, they stepped out into a brightly lit, austere hallway. Straight ahead was a large, walled-off square space where the doctors, nurses, and other medical professionals managed the activities on the floor. To the right was a large waiting area. It wasn’t crowded, but there were at least two dozen people. Dewey saw Amy Dellenbaugh, sitting on a couch in between her two daughters.

  The air had a fluorescent quality to it, a stillness as if history or time itself had stood still.

  Dewey felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. It was Adrian King, the White House chief of staff. King looked up at Dewey, saying nothing. He stared into Dewey’s eyes.

  “He almost died,” said King. His voice held no emotion or sadness, just a hint of anger. “That he didn’t is thanks to you.”

  King waved Dewey into Dellenbaugh’s heavily guarded hospital room. The president’s head was bandaged in white. He was attached to several IVs and various life monitors. Both eyes were black and blue.

  As Dewey approached, Dellenbaugh held out his hand. Dewey took his hand and held it. He felt a faint squeeze and looked down into Dellenbaugh’s eyes. Dellenbaugh smiled. He mouthed the words “thank you.”

  Dewey held Dellenbaugh’s hand until he fell back asleep. Dewey went back out through the door to the ICU. The nurse who’d led him inside was standing there.

  “Where’s Mike Murphy?” he said.

  She nodded at the door next to Dellenbaugh’s.

  Dewey pushed the big steel door aside and stepped into the room. Murphy was out like a light, and attached to at least twice the number of IVs and life-monitor devices as the president.

  The monitors beeped in a steady pattern.

  Dewey stepped to Murphy. His arms were tucked beneath blankets. Dewey reached out and put the palm of his hand against Murphy’s neck. He moved his fingers together, gently, pinching the skin at his neck, but ever so slightly.