“Hardly deep coma, Dr. Kapinsky,” Geoff said. “How has her intracranial pressure been, Mark?”
The group’s attention shifted to the ICP monitor and its ever-changing digital readout.
“Doing better now, twelve to thirteen. Was a bit high earlier. After some intravenous mannitol and hyperventilation, her ICP seems to have responded well. Brain swelling must be lessening.”
“Any other significant injuries?” asked Brian Phelps, briefly lifting his head out of his three by five cards.
“Collapsed right lung. The chest tube was placed by the general surgeons in the ER, and the lung seems to be re-expanding slowly. I repaired her scalp laceration. Spleen’s okay. No internal bleeding. A smattering of superficial shrapnel injuries, nothing too significant. Just the brain.”
Just the brain, thought Geoff. A biochemical mass the size and weight of a cantaloupe, the essence of what makes us uniquely human, the seat of our intellect, creativity, and emotions. Containing ten billion nerve cells, its labyrinthine pattern of axonal wiring and peculiar chemical balance of neurotransmitter substances were what distinguished an Einstein from a simpleton, a man of sound mind from a psychopath.
“Does that imply that if her brain swelling dissipates, she will come out of her coma?” asked one of the medical students.
“You’re assuming her nerve cells are only swollen, not permanently injured,” blurted Kapinsky. “Only thirty-eight percent of patients with her type of injury have a good recovery. Thirty-two percent have a moderate to severe permanent neurological or psychological deficit. Twenty-five percent die in the hospital.”
“Thank you, Professor Kapinsky,” said Geoff, no longer able to conceal his annoyance. “How about the PET scan results, Mark?”
“Her admission scan revealed a grade two out of five level of beta-endorphin flooding her brain’s receptors. Again, consistent with her coma, but with a fairly good prognosis.”
“That is, if you buy that PET scan endorphin data,” Kapinsky interrupted. “PET scanning is where CT scanning was thirty years ago—in its infancy with crude resolution and lacking standard means of interpretation. And endorphins, well, I don’t see how you can make any reliable statement regarding their relation to brain functions, let alone any clinical prognostication. The data is shaky, all conjecture. The only truly predictive model is Bayesian statistical analysis, utilizing the Glasgow Coma Scale, and according to this patient’s profile—”
“What do you know firsthand about PET scanning or endorphins?” Geoff tried to contain his rising anger. “I spent last year studying endorphin patterns in the brains of head injury patients using the PET scan. There is an excellent correlation between endorphin levels in the brain and coma prognosis. Dr. Kapinsky, one day you’ll learn all truth does not come neatly packaged in formulas.”
The medical students ducked behind the safety of their clipboards to avoid the verbal crossfire.
Kapinsky smacked his lips. “Why do runners all have this irrational, almost fanatic belief in the power of endorphins to control every aspect of the human mind? I can buy the claim they’re natural, morphine-like endogenous analgesics, but when you start telling me, without citing any data from controlled studies, that these compounds are responsible for everything from the anesthetic effects of acupuncture to the runner’s high in trained athletes and paranoid delusions in schizophrenics, well I think it’s a bunch of bullshit! I’m surprised as a physician and scientist you can accept such conjecture.”
After six years of almost constant conflict, Kapinsky knew precisely how to push Geoff’s buttons. What Geoff could never understand was what pleasure it gave him, except to compensate for Kapinsky’s feelings of inadequacy. To respond at this point would only escalate Kapinsky’s warped need for conflict, make rounds ever more counter-productive. “I’ll be more than happy to share my research data with you at another time, Kapinsky, but we have rounds to conduct.”
Beads of sweat dotted Kapinsky’s whitened upper lip. His jaw was clenched, his face gnarled in frustration.
Geoff turned his attention back to Mark Jackson. “Let’s talk about your treatment plan.”
“Sure. With her vital signs stable, I think we should concentrate our efforts at further resuscitation of her brain—”
Cathy Johannsen arrived from the nursing station and interrupted their discussion. “Geoff, Dr. Pederson’s secretary just called. She wanted to remind you about the three o’clock meeting in his office.”
“I thought it was four. Is she still on the phone?”
“No. She said she sent you an e-mail about it. She just wanted to remind you to be on time.”
“E-mail messages. God knows how many I have stacked up.” He looked up at the clock on the wall. “It’s two-thirty, and I haven’t even signed onto the system yet. Is the terminal in the staff room free?”
“I think so.”
Geoff looked over at Mark Jackson, waiting to discuss his treatment plan on the girl. “Mark, why don’t you and Kapinsky finish leading rounds. I’ve got to check my messages before the meeting with Pederson.”
“No problem.”
Geoff followed Cathy back to the nursing station and sat down at the vacant computer terminal. He enjoyed playing with computers, though he was hardly an expert. Nothing like his computer geek kid brother, Stefan. The extensive computerization at the Trauma Center dazzled Geoff. Even Stefan thought it impressive.
Geoff booted the computer, signed on, and entered his password.
Hello, Dr. Geoffrey Davis. Welcome to the Traumanet System.
You have three new e-mail messages. Would you like to view them?
Geoff manipulated the mouse and clicked on the e-mail icon.
MESSAGE #1 DATE: JULY 1, 2010 TIME: 0721
FROM: Alpha Micronet.org/syssad
Received: NYTC.org, 1 July 2010 0718.
MESSAGE: Hey bro. Good luck today. I know you’ll do a great job, as always! Stefan.
P.S.- How about dinner tonight?
Geoff smiled, appreciated the irony of Stefan’s message. His kid brother urging him on, the way Geoff had always been there for Stefan. He clicked on “Reply” and entered his response:
Thanks. I’ll call you later. Geoff.
Geoff clicked on message number two.
MESSAGE #2 DATE: JULY 1, 2010 TIME: 0900
FROM: L. EVERS; NYTC-A1/NSGLEE
MESSAGE: Dr. Pederson would like to see you today at three p.m. in his office for chief residency orientation meeting. Please be prompt. The doctor does not like to be kept waiting.
Thank you.
Geoff smiled, shook his head. It was probably going to be the same pep talk Pederson gave the last seventeen chief residents.
He clicked on the third message.
MESSAGE #3 DATE: JULY 1, 2010 TIME: 1037
FROM: Received by: Mercury, NYTC.org, 1 July 2010, 10:36; received: gopher/nih.gov, 1 July 2010, 10:33; received: relnet/info.umd.edu, 1 July 2010, 10:30; received: telnet/nasa.gov, 1 July 2010, 10:21; received: ber2759.USDA.gov, 1 July 2010, 10:17; received: cobalt, telnet/locis.loc.gov, 1
July 2010, 10:15.
MESSAGE: Keep your eyes open. Nothing is as it appears. Proteus.
Geoff stared at the cryptic message. What the hell did that mean? He noted the time it was sent: 10:15 a.m. He had been in the OR. Proteus. Obviously a code name. Geoff examined the extensive path the message had taken. It was from somewhere outside the medical center. The message must have been an error or simply meant for someone else.
Geoff clicked on the “Help” option of the e-mail screen then entered the Traumanet address book just for the hell of it and clicked on “search for sender address.” The search came up empty. The Traumanet address book didn’t include Internet addresses.
“Everything okay?�
� Cathy Johannsen asked.
Geoff continued staring at the cryptic message on the screen. “Yeah, fine. Just got someone else’s e-mail. It’s not the first time.”
Geoff moved the mouse and deleted the first two messages.
Chapter 5
R. Phillip Lancaster sat in the rear of his black limousine gazing out the window, his mind lost in thought. He hated Washington in the summertime—the oppressive heat and humidity—and this was the most blistering summer of the last decade.
Worse yet, it was next to impossible to accomplish anything of substance during the summer months. Key staffers as well as elected officials on the Hill often took their vacations in July, and when they weren’t physically away, their minds were elsewhere, wilting in the heat or wishing they were playing somewhere, anywhere but here. Even the President, a man he had known since their college days at Yale, with whom he shared a reasonably close, but necessarily guarded friendship, seemed less interested in what Lancaster felt were important matters of national security and more interested in going fishing. Might as well close down the shop and hang up a sign: “Sorry, closed ‘til after Labor Day.”
Frustrating indeed for Lancaster, paragon career intelligence officer, a role he had played for over thirty years, a role that had augmented his value throughout numerous administrations of both political parties but limited his ascendance as well.
With last year’s election of his long time associate William Cabot to the White House, Lancaster had made the erroneous and atypically naive assumption that friendship would transcend politics and he would be at the helm at Central Intelligence. He felt it, visualized it, tasted it. Political debts intervened, and he was passed over for an inexperienced dolt, Dick Bennington, the President’s former campaign chairman.
Cabot appointed Lancaster Deputy Director for Science and Technology, but Lancaster wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet. His years of training had taught him there was a solution for every seemingly no-win situation. He was resourceful and willing to adjust rules if need be.
Sixty- two years old, tall, but by no means willowy, his silver, perfectly coiffured hair and aquiline profile telegraphed his blue-blood Bostonian roots. Lips taut, cleft chin resting on his fist, Lancaster peered through the limousine window down the tree-lined street of Alexandria, Virginia. Today, while the rest of Washington was on vacation, R. Phillip Lancaster worked to solve his no-win scenario.
“Sir, you did say 761, didn’t you?” asked Frank Leber, Lancaster’s bodyguard and personal chauffeur.
“What’s that, Frank? Yes, 761. You remember which house that is, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Lancaster. The brick colonial with the white columns, second from the end on Pendleton Street. The same house where the Russian Federal Security Service officer—Solenko was his name, I believe—was debriefed last year.”
“Your memory constantly amazes me, Frank, though he was a member of military intelligence—not FSS. That defection was quite a coup for our CIA Special Op boys—” Lancaster caught himself mid-sentence, wondering whether Frank Leber really needed to know so much. One slip of the tongue could blow open the entire project. Lancaster was close to his rightful position, the one he was destined to fulfill. He would guard his bits of knowledge like precious gems.
The limousine turned the corner and paused briefly at the outer gate to the residence, a pause long enough for the young marine guard to recognize the occupant of the back seat and wave the car through. Already parked in the circular drive of the sterile house on Pendleton Street were two generic government vehicles, blue Ford Explorers, standard issue of the federal government that year. Background on the streets of Washington with thousands of similar vehicles on the road at any one time. Contrary to common belief, not all upper level bureaucrats were chauffeured in stretch limos, a trapping of office the patrician deputy director demanded at all times.
Lancaster stepped from the car and bounded up the red brick path, Leber carrying his briefcase, and as always one step ahead, to the rear entrance of the old colonial. Lancaster adjusted his striped tie, pulled down his heavily starched white sleeves from inside his suit jacket. He entered the vestibule of the elegant structure and greeted the guard posted at the doorway. Lancaster and Frank exchanged a glance and a nod, the silent command, wait here until I finish. Lancaster grabbed his briefcase and crossed the main hallway to the meeting room. Sunlight streamed through the large stained glass window at the end of the corridor, projecting an iridescent kaleidoscope on the dark parquet floor beneath his feet. Resolutely, he entered the study.
“Hell of a spy, Phil,” blurted Joe Franklin, Deputy Director for Operations at the CIA, still staring out the window at the parked limo resting like a beached whale on the circular drive. “Remind me never to offer you a job in Ops.”
Lancaster despised being called Phil, a salutation used only by Joe and the President. He indulged Cabot by nature of their longstanding friendship and, more importantly, his position, but with no one else did he comfortably allow such a breach of familiarity, particularly with Joe Franklin, whom he considered a somewhat vulgar, though deceptively brilliant, tactician. Unfortunately, Franklin was a necessary ally, and the plan was all that truly mattered. With pursed lips and great restraint, Lancaster let it go. “Glad you could make it on such short notice, Joe.” He extended his hand. Always the diplomat. “Did the boss question where you were going?”
“He’s outta town at the moment. I’m covered, don’t worry about me. I drove myself here, let my driver have a couple of hours off to take care of paperwork, errands, all that. No one asked any questions.” Joe Franklin paused awaiting a response that never came. “This place brings back such warm memories. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“How’s that?” Lancaster asked with a hint of impatience.
“Remember 1962, the Company retreat for the Technical Services Staff? This was the place, wasn’t it?”
Lancaster shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We were young and inexperienced then. I’m the first to acknowledge my mistakes.”
“Damn costly one, Phil,” Joe Franklin said, his thin lips forming a sneering grin. “Almost got you canned.”
Lancaster’s spine stiffened. He turned to the third member of the camarilla. Lancaster flashed a smile and offered a firm handshake to General Robert “Bulldog” Townsend, Deputy Director for National Intelligence. “Good to see you, General.”
Fifty-eight and a decorated veteran of G2—Army Intelligence—the nickname could not have caricatured the closely shorn, heavily jowled general any more precisely.
“What’s going on, Phillip?” Townsend asked in his usual cut-through-the-bullshit style. “We weren’t supposed to meet until next month, then I get this coded message via courier to meet you here in broad daylight, no less risking the entire project and my ass!”
Lancaster set his stainless steel briefcase down on the mahogany and leather desk, and using his personal electronic code, unlocked it. He removed three identical folders, each sealed with red tape and stamped, “Top Secret: Eyes Only,” with a Greek upper case sigma underneath. He handed each man his copy, cleared his throat.
“Gentlemen, a certain urgency has forced me to call this meeting sooner than we had planned. We’re in a code yellow situation.” Lancaster paused, more for dramatic effect than from a loss of words. “There’s been a breach of security. I have reason to believe the project has been infiltrated by the Inspector General’s Office.”
The words fell like laser-guided bombs, the ramifications of the potentially devastating information clear to the conspirators.
“Do we know who the agent is?” asked Franklin. “I can take care of that.”
“We have our suspicions, but nothing concrete yet,” Lancaster said.
“How about the Boss? Does Bennington know about the Project?” asked Genera
l Townsend, his eyes fearful.
“If he does, so does the President, and if he knew, we’d be history, especially with the goddamn lawyers running the country these days.”
“I thought the man was a good friend of yours, Phil?” prodded Franklin.
“He was,” Lancaster said. His voice was bitter.
“Is Papa Bear safe?” asked Townsend.
“He is, for now.”
“How’s he taking it?” asked Townsend.
“Okay, but with him, you never know. We need to watch him very carefully.”
“So, what’s the containment plan?” Franklin asked, impatiently chewing on the stem of his pipe.
Lancaster stared at each of the two men in turn, his lips forming a steely smile. “Open your files and read, gentlemen. We’ve waited too long to allow this project to fail again.”
Franklin glanced at the first page of the document and flashed a grin back at Lancaster. “I hate to admit it, but you’ll make a great director, Phil.”
Chapter 6
“Doctor Pederson has been expecting you, Doctor Davis,” said Lynn Evers as she peered at Geoff over the top of her reading glasses. “You know how much Dr. Pederson dislikes waiting.”
Geoff glanced at his watch. Two fifty-nine p.m. Good thing he was early.
Every department chairman had his enforcer, his hit man, or woman—usually it was a woman. Of late middle age, moderately overweight, humorless, Lynn Evers epitomized the role. The Terminator, the residents called her. She either loved you, which was rare, or hated you, and while she couldn’t directly affect your career, she could make life over a seven-year period pretty damn miserable. Somehow, Geoff had managed to sneak up on her good side, which was to say she acted resoundingly neutral toward him. Good thing. The past several years had been miserable enough.
The Endorphin Conspiracy Page 4