by Al Pessin
* * *
In London, Mahmoud was also staring at a TV screen. It was a mid-afternoon talk show. Rich women discussing rich women’s problems. It disgusted him. He turned down the sound.
A minute later, the News Alert banner came onto the screen, and Mahmoud turned the volume back up.
“BBC News. A large explosion has rocked Whitehall in Central London. We have few details, but damage seems to be widespread and the ambulance service is responding to numerous casualty reports. Police are asking people to avoid the area to make way for emergency vehicles. Stay tuned to BBC for further updates.”
Mahmoud jumped to his feet and punched the air. “Allahu akbar! ALLAHU AKBAR! ”
* * *
Some thirty-two thousand feet up on an arcing course not far south of Mahmoud’s apartment, the C-17 cargo plane fitted for medical evacuation rocked gently in the backwash of its refueling tanker.
The nurse assigned to the only occupied bed watched Faraz roll onto his back, shivering, and she heard him let out a moan. It was cold in the plane’s cavernous interior, particularly with so few people on board. Even the highest-level VIPs rarely got one of these giants to themselves.
She administered a booster dose of sedative through the IV and Faraz relaxed. He hadn’t opened his eyes. She tightened the blankets around him. If he was still feeling the cold, he was too far gone to know it.
The nurse looked at her watch. They’d been airborne for eight hours. Six more to go.
* * *
Mohammed Faisal Ibrahim, known to his allies and enemies as “al-Souri,” the Syrian, sat on a well-worn carpet on the ground with his trusted man Nazim under a camouflage shade in the desert northeast of Damascus. A small radio played classical Arab music.
Al-Souri’s body ached from injuries the infidel Americans had inflicted on him in Afghanistan a week earlier. Their grenade had sent a window shard into his side, causing blood loss and internal damage that should have killed him, but for Allah’s grace and the unexpected medical skills of his protégé, Hamed.
Oh, Hamed. How could you have been an infidel spy?
In fact, al-Souri should have died twice last week, but Allah had saved him so he could issue the order. It took only a few words to change the course of history—a saying, conveyed from the mountains of Afghanistan to the jihad’s communications hub in London, and from there to the fighters around the world.
After that, al-Souri had relinquished command and, against the doctor’s orders, traveled three thousand kilometers west by road and small airplane. As he traveled, the brothers and sisters across the world said their final prayers before their martyrdom.
“The Syrian” was home now, ready to begin the greatest work of his life. He would participate in the global jihad, of course, but his priority was to defeat the Shiite dictator Assad and begin the task of spreading sharia across the world.
First, though, he would hear of Allah’s victory. The infidels would know Allah’s power in the heart of their capital cities.
Al-Souri shifted his position, trying to get comfortable in spite of his wound. It was not prayer time, but he prayed silently. His eyes were half closed, and he rocked gently forward and back.
Nazim reached for the radio.
“Leave it,” his boss said in Arabic. “Allah will provide.”
“I cannot stand the waiting.”
“This waiting will not be the greatest test Allah gives you. Quiet, now.”
A voice broke into the music—news of the bombings in the United States, Britain, and France—the three most hated infidel invaders.
“Victory,” Nazim whispered.
Al-Souri smiled a rare smile and went back to his prayers.
Chapter Four
They were praying in Bridget’s elevator, too. The larger particles from the ceiling had settled to the floor, but the small ones still hung in the air. Everyone looked gray in the low wattage of the emergency light. The odors of sweat and blood were unavoidable. People protected their airways with their hands. The captain at the front was coughing.
“Try to breathe slowly, sir,” Bridget urged.
It seemed they’d been in there for hours, but her watch said it had only been twenty minutes. The woman in the back was rocking again, and her lips were moving, apparently in prayer. The young woman who Will had comforted was sitting next to the nurse, who held her hand and whispered in her ear. Dr. Carlton was making his way through the crush of people, checking each person as he went.
Bridget helped Will into a sitting position and stood up the folded wheelchair to make a little more space. He leaned against her legs. She picked a piece of ceiling tile out of his hair and tried to look anywhere but toward Gabby.
Then they heard running outside the elevator.
“Help!” the captain shouted. He coughed again. “We’re in here!” Others picked up the chant.
“Fire department,” came the voice they’d been praying for. Then two knocks from the outside. “You in there?”
“Yes!”
“We’re here!”
“Help us!”
Bridget stood and took charge. “Quiet, everyone.” She held onto the captain for support and raised her voice. “We have fourteen people in here, several injured, one . . .” The word caught in her throat. “One fatality.”
A man’s voice came from outside. “Thank you, ma’am. Please stand clear of the door as best you can.”
Bridget shooed people toward the back.
The curved end of a crowbar came through, high up between the doors, and some considerable amount of force was applied to the other end. The doors moved slowly at first. Then the mechanism kicked in and the doors opened as they normally would, with their familiar hiss.
Bridget looked up to see three sets of firefighters’ boots. The elevator was between floors, but there was a four-foot overlap they could get through.
The captain went up first to help with the pulling. Next was the young woman, with a boost from the nurse. That made room for the red-haired woman to reach the front, so she was next.
“Stand back, please.” One of the firefighters eased himself into the elevator.
“This man next,” Dr. Carlton said, pointing at the older man with the injured hip. The firefighter and the doctor lifted him into the arms of the men above.
Bridget and the nurse helped Will hobble to the door. The two women and the firefighter pushed on Will’s good leg while the men above pulled his arms. Will let out a yell, but he made it into the hallway above.
Dr. Carlton turned to Bridget. “You’re next, ma’am.”
She was going to argue, to say others should go first, but she was in position and the firefighter was on one knee, his hands intertwined to provide a step. Bridget put the flat underside of her left shoe onto it, and he lifted her out of the elevator. Her ribs screamed with pain.
“Thanks,” she said.
Bridget looked for Will. He was sitting against the wall across from a nurses’ station, a few steps from the elevator. She joined him and put her arms around his neck.
“You should have someone look at your head,” Will said.
“I’m okay. Look at this mess.”
A stream of doctors, nurses, and firefighters moved past them, some carrying wounded. Most of the ceiling tiles were on the floor, along with loads of other debris. One man in a bloody shirt staggered by, then sat heavily on the floor, stared off into space, and cried softly.
Bridget released Will, and they watched in silence as the firemen lifted Gabby out of the elevator and carried her body into one of the patient rooms.
Will squeezed Bridget’s hand. She leaned her head on his shoulder for a few seconds, “I should really get out of here.” Bridget stood with difficulty, one hand on the wall.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Will said, still on the floor. “We’re stuck here, and you need to see a doctor.”
“I will, but not now. I’m not a priority, and I don’t have time to w
ait.”
“Don’t have time?”
“I have to get to work.”
“Really? In the middle of this?”
“Especially in the middle of this.” Bridget looked at her phone. Still no signal. She surveyed the carnage. “We’ll never get you to my place. You okay here for a while?”
“Yeah, sure, leg is killing me, but you really—”
Bridget held up her hand to stop him. She reached into her purse. “Here’s my apartment key. It’s all set for you. If you end up staying here, that’s fine, too. Call me later, okay?
Will stared at the key in his hand. “Okay, yeah, whatever. At least let me look at your head.”
Bridget knelt down and turned so he could see the wound.
“It’s still bleeding, and you seem a little shaky.”
Bridget crossed to the nurses’ station and found a rolled bandage on the floor. She returned to Will and knelt down again. “Okay, let’s see that SEAL first aid training.”
Will doubled and tripled the bandage over the gash, then brought it around before tying it tight.
“Ouch.”
He admired his handiwork and seemed to approve. “Stand up slowly. How do you feel?”
“Yeah, not bad. I’ll make it. I’m sorry to leave you here, but . . . Jeez, now that I think about it, the Pentagon seems awfully far away.”
“It is. Maybe wait—”
“No. That just means I have to get going.” She looked up and down the hallway. “This is on me.”
“On you? C’mon, Bridge.”
“On me to fix it, anyway.”
“This?” Will swept his hand across the chaos. “I know you’re Superwoman, but how you gonna fix this?”
Bridget exhaled. “Yeah. There’s no fixing this.” She turned to face Will and whispered, “But like you said, we will hit those bastards, and that will be on me. Partly, at least.”
She knelt down and kissed him. “I’m sorry, Will. I really have to go.”
“Sure, sure. Go ahead. Just take care of yourself, okay?”
“I will. Thanks.” She cupped his cheek.
“Go on. I’ll be fine.”
Bridget gave a half smile. She turned and walked to the stairway beyond the elevators. When the door slammed behind her, she wished she’d turned back for another look.
* * *
The stairwell was crowded, and the air was full of particles. The going was slow, with injured people blocking the way. Bridget held the handrail with her left hand in case the dizziness returned. Her right hand was on her chest. She got stabbing pains with every step.
More people flowed onto the stairs at each floor. Bridget passed the fifth floor one agonizingly slow step at a time. It would take her a goddamn hour to reach the ground at this rate.
“Make a hole!” someone shouted behind her, and everyone pressed to the wall as medics passed carrying an unconscious woman in a waiting room chair.
Bridget made a snap decision. She fell in behind them and stuck with them, earning several looks of admiration tinged with resentment. She ignored the pain in her ribs, but the fast descent and constant turning made her dizzy again.
The cool air from the open emergency exit door hit her one flight up, and that helped. At the doorway, the mid-morning light blinded her, and the pain in her head spiked. Bridget shielded her eyes and continued behind the medics toward a parking lot jammed with ambulances and fire trucks.
She stopped against a tree to steady herself and catch her breath. She had no idea where she was in the sprawling Bethesda complex. Sirens wailed from several directions. People shouted orders. Others called for help. Medical teams and volunteers carried injured people to a lawn that doctors were using as a triage area. From there, the victims were being directed to undamaged parts of the hospital or put into ambulances.
Bridget turned and looked back toward the building she had just left. People continued to emerge from the stairwell, some holding onto friends, colleagues, or strangers.
Most of the buildings she could see were damaged. At least two were on fire, and water flew high from firehoses, arcing down into the rubble. The medical center’s tower was gone—the upper floors destroyed, whatever was left below obscured by a plume of black smoke.
To her left, more than a dozen bodies were laid side by side and covered with towels and bedsheets in a makeshift morgue. No one had had time to put up a tent or barrier for privacy.
A paramedic came up behind Bridget and touched her arm. “Ma’am, let me help you.”
“No. I’m okay. Where are we, exactly? Which way to Wisconsin Avenue?”
“Ma’am, I have to dress that head wound.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“Ma’am, your field dressing is soaked through.” The fully geared-up, six-foot-three medic tightened his grip on Bridget’s arm. He was not taking no for an answer.
“All right,” she allowed. “But quickly.”
He took her to the back of his ambulance and went to work. He removed what Will had done. “Sit.” He indicated the step below the vehicle’s back door.
Bridget complied. The medic used water to clean most of the blood from her hair and dried the area with a sterile towel. He sprayed saline solution and put on a fresh bandage. Bridget’s eyes were directly opposite his name tag.
“Thanks . . . Kearsy,” she said.
“No prob.”
Bridget touched her chest and winced.
“Broken ribs?”
“Seems that way. Nothing to be done, though.”
“You’ll need an X-ray.”
“Sure, in my spare time.” Bridget checked her phone again. Nothing. “Do you have any comms?”
“Only for medical emergencies. Regular service is down. This is big.”
“No kidding.”
As Kearsy was applying the last piece of medical tape, two other members of his team arrived with a man on a gurney.
“Traumatic arm injury and cardiac arrhythmia,” one of his colleagues said.
“Load him up,” Kearsy ordered. “All the local hospitals are already overfull. We’re heading to GW.”
“GW?” Bridget asked. “Downtown?”
“That’s right. No use waiting in line out here when we can get faster service hauling ass to GW.” Kearsy helped lift the gurney into the ambulance, and the other medics hopped in after it.
“I have to go with you.”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
Bridget pulled her ID out of her purse. “Look, it’s a matter of national security that I get to the Pentagon.”
Kearsy read the ID. “It’s against regulations, ma’am.”
“You going to quote regs to me in the middle of this?”
Kearsy looked around, seemed to realize the regs didn’t necessarily apply. He looked back at Bridget. “Okay, ma’am. Hop in the front. We’ll take you as far as we’re going.”
Kearsy was already heading toward the driver’s seat. Bridget ran the three steps to the passenger side, causing more sharp pains through her ribs. She opened the door and climbed in. Kearsy had the truck moving before she could shut the door.
The siren blared as they made their way through the jumble of emergency vehicles and out onto a road Bridget didn’t recognize, with policemen waving them ahead.
They turned south on Wisconsin, and Bridget saw that the road had been cleared of all nonemergency traffic. She reached for her seat belt and caught a glimpse of a stage and bunting that had been set up on the hospital’s front lawn for some sort of ceremony. The platform was now a casualty staging area with torn and singed red, white, and blue banners.
Kearsy pushed the accelerator, and Bridget headed to work on city streets at sixty-plus miles an hour.
About halfway to downtown, her phone came to life, pinging out of control with texts, emails, and messages. “Where the HELL are you???” was top of the list, from Jay Pruitt at the White House. “We need you here NOW!!!”
Here? At the White House? Shit.<
br />
Bridget hit Reply and thumbed: “I was at Bethesda. Terrible mess. Heading toward you now.” She hit Send.
Her other messages were similar to Jay’s. It seemed everyone was looking for the head of Task Force Epsilon. She wrote back only to Liz at her office to say where she was going, and to her mother, who knew she had gone to Bethesda that morning and was understandably freaking out.
Bridget looked up from her phone to see the tony apartment buildings of northwest D.C. flying by. As they approached Massachusetts Avenue, she saw dozens of people flocking toward the National Cathedral. It was eerie not to hit traffic as they sped through Georgetown. The few people walking in the empty road scattered as the ambulance approached.
Kearsy slowed to take the left turn onto M Street, then veered right onto Pennsylvania Avenue to cut the angle for GW. He pulled into the ER driveway as another ambulance cleared the way. The staff was on them in a second, helping the crew move their patient and starting treatment before they’d passed through the sliding doors.
Bridget got out, a bit unsteady again. A nurse came over to help, but Bridget waved her off. “I’m fine. There are lots of folks worse off.”
The nurse protested, but Bridget shooed her toward another ambulance pulling in behind them.
Through the open vehicle door, Kearsy said, “I’ve gotta move this thing.” He held out a business card. “Call me anytime.”
Bridget took the card and got back in. “Take me to the White House,” she said. “Please.”
“I thought you were heading for the Pentagon.”
“Change of plans. It’s urgent. Please, Kearsy.”
“I have to wait for the crew and get back to Bethesda.”
“It’s only a few blocks. You’ll be back in five minutes.”
Kearsy looked toward the building. His team was still inside. He looked back at Bridget. She made sure he saw her put his card into her purse. “Okay, five minutes,” he said. Kearsy gunned the engine and swung the truck left at the end of the driveway to get back onto Pennsylvania Avenue.
At 18th Street, they came to a wall of city buses across the road, flanked by police cars with lights flashing. Bridget saw SWAT officers take cover behind the vehicles and point rifles at them.