by Ben Coes
Calibrisi’s lips moved, but no sound came out.
Dellenbaugh looked at him. “Hector?”
Dellenbaugh stood up from his desk. A look of shock was on his face.
“Are you okay?”
Calibrisi reached for the door handle to prevent himself from falling. He registered the president’s words in the same moment he felt a sudden stab in his arm, then a shot of warmth emanating from his chest, like a fever. A terrible, turbulent sensation followed as his heart started to spasm, beating a dozen times a second. Before he could say anything, the havoc that gripped his heart enveloped his whole body. Blackness followed …
“Get Terry!” yelled Dellenbaugh, referring to Terry O’Brien, the White House physician.
Dellenbaugh threw aside his chair and rushed around his desk. He charged toward Calibrisi, arms extended …
Calibrisi could see nothing. He could do nothing. He heard the voice again.
“Daddy, I’m so scared.”
Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he heard Dellenbaugh’s loud yell. He sensed the president’s arrival in the light, the way it modulated, as he charged toward him. For a few moments, he regained his ability to see. Dellenbaugh was blurry, until his face came closer. A look of horror was on his face. His lips were moving as he reached for Calibrisi. Like being underwater, the words were faint, slow, rubbery.
Calibrisi tried to take a step, but it was like stepping into water. His ankle bent and his leg fell away. He stumbled and collapsed to the floor, landing with a reverberating crash on his side, then rolling onto his back. His eyes wavered inside their sockets as he searched the ceiling, trying to focus on something—a lightbulb, the president’s face, a crack in the plaster, anything that might keep him in this moment, this room …
This world.
Calibrisi clutched his throat, attempting to stop what was coming, but it was pointless, which, on some level, he already knew …
36
ALEPPO HOSPITAL
SYRIA
Dewey awoke to a scream coming from somewhere down the hall. How long he’d been out, he didn’t know, but it couldn’t have been more than five or ten minutes. He smelled foul body odor; the doctor was next to the table, wiping blood from his forehead and neck, getting him cleaned up for his execution.
Dewey looked around the operating room. The cameraman had arrived. He looked like the others, except for a white T-shirt. He was standing next to the camera, adjusting it.
The gunman remained at the door. The rifle was in his right hand, its strap on his shoulder. In his left hand was a cell phone, which he was typing into.
A dull, throbbing ache came from Dewey’s stomach.
Another scream echoed down the hallway.
Dewey stared at the cameraman, who was watching Dewey from behind the camera and making last-minute adjustments. The klieg lights remained off.
The doctor removed a small glass vial and a syringe from a cabinet. He stuck the needle into the bottle and pulled back on the plunger, loading the syringe. When he finished, he stepped toward Dewey.
“Painkiller,” he whispered in broken English. “It will make the pain less.”
“Cut the rope,” whispered Dewey, extending his hands.
The doctor shook his head ever so slightly.
“They kill me,” he whispered back. “I have daughter and son. They’re babies. My wife, she is dead. I’m all they have.”
The doctor leaned toward Dewey, the needle out. He grabbed Dewey’s arm and moved the needle closer.
Behind the doctor, Dewey watched the cameraman. He had the cord to the lights and was looking for an outlet.
The doctor placed the tip of the needle to Dewey’s arm.
The cameraman found one and pulled the end of the cord toward it.
Near the door, the gunman put his arm in front of his face as he prepared for the lights to come on.
“Behind you,” said Dewey as the cameraman jammed the plug into the wall.
The doctor turned just as the klieg lights flashed on, like two bright balls of halogen sunlight, bursting inside the room. He was blinded.
Dewey grabbed the doctor’s wrist with his hands, still bound. He stabbed the syringe into the doctor’s neck, then sat up quickly and leapt from the table. He grabbed the doctor’s neck and charged toward the door, pushing the frightened man in the direction of the gunman.
The gunman heard the doctor’s muffled yelp and opened his eyes. He panicked at the sight of the doctor’s back moving quickly toward him. The weapon was at his side and he reached for it. He swept it up and across the air as Dewey, clutching the doctor, barreled across the room directly at him. The gunman fired at the same moment Dewey reached him. The doctor’s helpless body slammed into the gunman and pushed into the muzzle of the rifle just as the first shot was fired. The bullet struck him in the right side, blowing off a piece of his torso, barely missing Dewey. Dewey slammed the doctor, now screaming in pain, into the weapon with all his strength. The rifle was pushed to the side under the force of the doctor’s frame. The gunman was knocked backward against the door, but he held on to the rifle and fought to free it.
Dewey let go of the doctor and pivoted, ducking just as the cameraman swung a knife across the air at him. As the blade whooshed inches above Dewey’s head, Dewey kicked out with his foot, hitting the cameraman with a brutal strike to the side of his knee. The cameraman crashed awkwardly to the floor.
Dewey lurched toward the barrel of the rifle with his two bound hands, gripping it tightly just as the gunman kicked him in the leg. Dewey absorbed the kick. He leapt at the gunman with his shoulder, still clutching the barrel of the rifle, and slammed hard into the gunman’s head, crushing him against the wall. Dewey kept the man pressed into the wall, backing into him and launching again, slamming him hard, preventing him from doing anything except struggle against Dewey’s powerful frame. But the gunman still held onto the barrel of the rifle. It was at Dewey’s side and the terrorist was trying desperately to aim it at the only part of Dewey he could, his feet. The gunman fired. The unmuted staccato of the bullets hammered into the floor a few inches from Dewey’s right foot. Dewey slammed his elbow behind him. It hit the terrorist directly on the nose, crushing it. The gunman yelped in pain.
Dewey’s bound hands tried to keep hold of the barrel of the rifle as he continued to grind the large man into the wall and prevent him from getting any room to move. The gunman, who held the gun in his right hand, finger on the trigger, yanked at the rifle, trying to free the barrel from Dewey’s clutch and push Dewey far enough away so that he could shoot him.
Dewey’s eyes swept left, where the cameraman was now standing. With a maniacal look on his face, he pulled a combat blade from his belt and charged at Dewey, who was doing everything he could just to keep hold of the rifle. As the cameraman sprinted forward, Dewey felt a vicious kick from the gunman behind him, a steel-toed boot striking his ankle, nearly collapsing him. He let out a low, pained grunt.
The cameraman raised the six-inch blade above his head and swung down, taking a ferocious cut at Dewey. Dewey pitched left, taking the gunman behind him with him, barely evading the cameraman’s savage slash. Another kick to his ankle made Dewey groan, but it also enraged him. He maneuvered the barrel of the rifle up toward the cameraman as, in the pandemonium, the gunman triggered the carbine again. Bullets ripped into the cameraman’s face.
In one fluid motion, Dewey let go of the barrel of the gun and raised both arms over his head. He reached over his head and back, wrapping his bound hands over the gunman’s head. He pulled his hands down so that the rope at his wrists was now around the back of his neck. The gunman let out a pained gasp as he tried with all his might to free himself from Dewey’s hold, but it was no use. Dewey pulled forward, bringing the terrorist’s head closer, yanking his skull and neck down against his right shoulder.
The gunman was powerful and he fought back, but Dewey was stronger and his arms were longer. Slowly, Dewey ti
ghtened the hold; the terrorist’s neck was soon noosed against Dewey’s shoulder in a viselike grip. The gunman struggled to breathe as Dewey pulled down on his neck with all his strength. The gunman tried to swing the rifle across Dewey’s chest as Dewey choked him, but he couldn’t get the muzzle close enough to have any chance of hitting Dewey. The gunman panted desperately as Dewey continued to strangle him.
Suddenly, the gunman’s other hand reached over Dewey’s other shoulder and fumbled for the barrel of the carbine. When he managed to grasp it, he now had hold of both ends of the rifle, in front of Dewey. He heaved backward, slamming the rifle against Dewey’s neck as Dewey maintained his clamp on the terrorist’s neck, sealing off air. Dewey felt sharp pain from the strike to his neck. The gunman repeated the move, trying to choke Dewey with the rifle before he himself ran out of air.
The room was filled with the animal sounds of the two men struggling for their lives.
Dewey writhed as he tried to breathe, but the gunman was strong. Dewey staggered forward, still holding the terrorist against his shoulder, knowing that if he allowed him to get any air, it would all be over. The pressure from the rifle against Dewey’s neck slackened. He lurched to his right in the same instant he ripped his wrists down with every ounce of strength he had. The abrupt motion took both men sideways and down. As they tumbled to the floor, Dewey heard the dull, rubberlike thud of the terrorist’s spine snapping. For several seconds, Dewey lay there, catching his breath, the terrorist’s lifeless face just inches away. Slowly, he raised his bound wrists over the dead man’s head and let go.
Looking around, Dewey saw the knife on the floor and awkwardly cut away the rope that bound his wrists.
How had no one heard? It didn’t matter now. Maybe gunfire was so common they’d all learned to ignore it.
Dewey picked up the rifle. He popped out the magazine, found a full one in the gunman’s weapons vest, and slammed it into the carbine. He was breathing heavily and soaked with perspiration. He hurt all over. Breathing was painful. But he pushed the discomfort from his mind. He didn’t have time to feel pain right now—not if he wanted to live.
Dewey stepped to the window, pulling aside the curtains. Sunlight entered the room. He looked down. It took his eyes a few seconds to comprehend what he was seeing. When he did, he recoiled.
A pile of corpses was stacked high atop a flatbed truck, waiting to be moved to some sort of mass grave. Most of the bodies were in hospital garb.
He had to get out of there. He had to move. Garotin would be back soon.
Dewey set the fire selector on the gun to manual, allowing him to fire one bullet at a time. He clutched the gun as he stepped to the door, listening carefully for noise.
He pulled the door slowly in, peeking his head out of the room. The corridor was bright in green-hued fluorescent. A nurse’s desk down the corridor was manned by two men, who were seated, smoking and talking to each other. The hallway was long, door after door of rooms, most closed. Beyond the desk, a line of beds on wheels lay empty.
The door across the hall opened. Dewey pulled back, shielded by the wall. He saw the head of a gunman. It wasn’t Garotin. His front was covered in blood. Before the door could shut, he caught a glimpse into the operating room. Beneath bright overhead lights, a headless body lay strapped to the operating room table, blood still spilling from the freshly severed neck.
He’d long ago come to terms with the concept of torture, of being mortally wounded, handicapped, even dying. But the sight of the beheaded man sent a burst of terror through Dewey in a way he’d never experienced. It was pure terror, the feeling cold and empty, with no boundaries or hope. Dewey felt uncontrollably nauseous. He fought to regain himself, but liquid shot from his mouth, over his lips, onto the wall and floor. He vomited for several seconds, trying in vain to control the heaving noises.
The door opened. It was the gunman from across the hall. The man had short-cropped black hair and glasses. At the sight of Dewey, he was momentarily taken aback.
Dewey raised the rifle just as the gunman yelled, then fired. The slug struck the terrorist in the right eye, shattering the lens of his glasses, splattering blood and brain across the wall. He crumpled to the filthy linoleum floor.
He had no choice now. He moved the fire selector to auto-hail.
Dewey opened the door and moved, rifle out in front, finger on the trigger. He glanced right, seeing nothing; then left, swinging the muzzle around and aiming. The two guards at the nurse’s desk stared at him, paralyzed in disbelief, but only for a half second. The far one threw himself down, diving for cover beneath the desk. Dewey marked the one still standing and fired. Slugs burst from the carbine, slamming him back, dropping him.
Dewey walked slowly toward the desk, waiting, muzzle trained. Then he stopped and waited. After a few seconds, the other man’s head appeared at the side of the desk and Dewey fired. A hail of bullets pelted the desk and ripped into the terrorist’s skull before he could pull back in.
The ominous drumbeat of steel-toed boots echoed from behind Dewey as terrorists ascended the stairs at the end of the hall.
Dewey charged across the hallway into the room of the decapitated man. The room was empty except for the dead man. Dewey saw the head, lying on the floor at the end of a wet trail of blood. He fought to not throw up again.
A siren blared, screeching menacingly through the hallway.
Dewey heard shouting in Arabic followed by a short blast of automatic gunfire. He went to a corner of the room, crouched down, and got ready.
Two gunmen charged into the room. They wore black T-shirts and nylon masks that covered their faces. Each man clutched a gun; the first a pistol, the second man a submachine gun. They scanned the room and one of them spied Dewey. Dewey’s eyes locked with the terrorist’s, who quickly registered the muzzle of the rifle. Dewey fired. Slugs slashed into the man’s neck. He dropped, screaming, as the other guard froze, aware that Dewey now held him in the killing arc.
Dewey moved quickly and stuck the muzzle of the rifle beneath the remaining gunman’s chin. With his left hand, he took the pistol. He held the barrel and hammered a crushing blow into the man’s temple, dropping him to the ground.
More footsteps thundered from the corridor. The high-pitched siren continued to wail.
Dewey pulled the black shirt from the unconscious gunman and pulled it over his head.
Think.
He stared down at the dead terrorist. He knew what he needed to do.
37
OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Less than thirty seconds later, Terry O’Brien, the White House physician, appeared at the end of the hallway, sprinting to the Oval Office. Behind him was a swarm of people from the medical unit, along with senior White House staff.
Calibrisi’s eyes shut just as the full force of the coronary hit him and sent his 230-pound frame into a horrible spasm of seizures.
O’Brien stormed into the room, dropped to the floor by Calibrisi’s side, ripped off his shirt, and pressed his fingertips into his neck, searching for a pulse.
A medical assistant attached Calibrisi to a portable heart monitor as O’Brien started performing CPR.
O’Brien looked up at Dellenbaugh.
“Tell them to get the Traumahawk ready, Mr. President,” he said as he pumped his hands up and down on Calibrisi’s chest in a timed rhythm. “We don’t have much time.”
The Oval Office was crowded with cabinet members, various high-level Pentagon officials, and senior national security staff. An eerie silence took over the room.
After two minutes of CPR, O’Brien again searched for a carotid artery pulse in Calibrisi’s neck but felt nothing. The heart monitor told him the same thing.
“Lifepak!” he said.
He got higher on his knees and began an urgent, faster-paced, more violent form of CPR.
A few seconds later, a nurse moved a defibrillator to Calibrisi’s side. She
handed O’Brien a pair of paddles, which he placed against Calibrisi’s chest. He waited for the tone, indicating the charge was set, then barked, “Clear!” ensuring no one was touching Calibrisi. He pressed the handle buttons and sent a searing two hundred joules of electric current into Calibrisi’s body.
His eyes shot to the monitor. It blipped, then went steady, a green line laid out across the screen. After a few seconds, the defibrillator’s high-pitched tone went steady again, and O’Brien repeated the blast of electric current to Calibrisi’s heart, trying in vain to bring him back to life.
After a third attempt, a small green triangle appeared on the monitor, then another, and a third, all accompanied by a soft blip; he was alive.
“Let’s go,” said O’Brien.
They lifted Calibrisi onto a gurney. Someone opened the French doors. O’Brien and three others—two medical assistants and Dellenbaugh himself—sprinted as they wheeled the gurney, charging through the doors, across the Rose Garden, toward the South Lawn.
Calibrisi clung to life, his heart pumping in a weak, uneven pattern that O’Brien knew would last only a few minutes.
When they reached the South Lawn, a wall of wind hit them as they approached the bright red Sikorsky HC-60 Traumahawk. The chopper’s rotors cut frantically through the air above their heads. They tucked the gurney into the chopper. O’Brien and one of his assistants, a physician named Lovvorn, climbed aboard. The chopper shot into the cloud-crossed Washington sky.
Lovvorn administered CPR as the chopper moved east, slashing the air as the pilots jacked the ferocious chopper to the max.
O’Brien leaned into the cockpit.
“Where to, sir?” asked the copilot, yelling above the loud engines.
“Bethesda!”
“I’ll radio ahead!”
“Tell them to find Marc Gillinov!” yelled O’Brien above the noise of the chopper, referring to one of Walter Reed’s heart surgeons. “Tell him we have an advanced therapy situation! Use those exact words!”