Foreign Threat
by
Mitchell Goldstein
All Rights Reserved
© 2017
No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any for, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopies, recorded or otherwise, without the permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations and embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Published by: Elevation Book Publishing
Atlanta, Georgia 30308
www.elevationbookpublishing.com
Contributors:
Author: Mitchell Brian Goldstein (1960 - )
Editor: Courtney Elizabeth Taylor (1984 - )
p.c.m
ISBN 978-1-943904-13-6 (hc)
ISBN 978-1-943904-15-0 (pb)
BISAC DRA001000
BISAC FIC002000
BISAC FIC006000
BISAC FIC035000
BISAC FIC038000
Prologue
The phone rang. This call would change the course of history.
He answered, and an Afghanistan operator completed the connection. “I’ve been waiting for your call, but we have to make it brief. I’m concerned that—”
“Stop, my friend,” said a calm voice with a Middle Eastern accent. “It’s time to begin work. I think I have found the right doctor to do our little chore. Now we must wait for the right guinea pig. We need to move this along. It has taken entirely too much time.”
Too much time? The American thought the entire process was moving too quickly. Their first meeting had been only six months ago. A great deal of planning still needed to be completed. So many questions with not enough answers. How in the world did this Afghan nut think this was the time for action?
The American pleaded, “I need more time. I have not yet made the contacts that we discussed. I can’t move too quickly or I will stick out like a sore thumb.”
“My friend, you do have time. We have only found the doctor, and now we must find a patient. This may take some time. But I must urge you to begin making your contacts. When our patient arrives, we must move swiftly.”
The American again tried to make his point clear. “On the contrary, I think you already have moved too quickly. If this pace continues, there will likely be mistakes, and the mistakes will lead to bigger problems. Perhaps the entire operation will be discovered.”
“Please, my friend, understand that my people don’t make mistakes. There is no cause for alarm. My people have done this for years. They are what you call…professionals. They have been well trained. You, my friend, are new to this activity. I wish for you to be patient. Please make your contacts. I will speak to you soon.”
A click sounded on the other end.
Be patient…make the contacts…no mistakes… This was not Iraq, Iran, or Afghanistan; this was the United States of America. Mistakes were made all the time, every day, by very careful, organized, and cautious people.
He grabbed his overcoat and hat and crossed his small apartment. He looked through the peephole into the hallway: nobody around. He slowly opened the door and then scurried to the back stairwell. He raced quietly down the stairs and out the side door leading to the busy street.
He raised the collar of the coat and joined the crowd on the sidewalk. Many people were walking to work, to lunch, to the stores, and he soon was lost in the crowd.
After a few blocks, he passed his car. The tires were still there, no scratches along the doors, and the dark blanket was still lying partially over the passenger seat. No obvious markings suggested that someone had tampered with the car.
He walked one more block, looked around for anyone suspicious, and started back toward his car.
Out of nowhere, he felt a tap on his left shoulder.
His heart rate raced, and adrenaline leaked into his blood stream. He gently slipped a hand toward his inside coat pocket. Just before he drew his weapon, he heard the small voice of an elderly woman.
“I’m sorry, young man, but you dropped your gloves on the street. They look very nice. I didn’t think you would want to be without them.”
He nearly collapsed with relief. “Thank you, ma’am.”
The woman smiled and continued on her way.
He finally reached his car, constantly looking over his shoulder for someone threatening. He was trained to identify what didn’t belong in the quickest of a glance.
He checked the car again, concerned that something had changed while the old woman was distracting him. Nothing was extruding from the end of the tailpipe. No wires showed along the lower edge of the bumper. The tires were fine.
Everything inside the car appeared to be equally intact. He placed the key in the ignition, closed his eyes, and slowly started the ignition. As the engine rolled over, he relaxed in his seat, shifted the car into drive, and drove away.
At the first red light, he pulled out a file that read, University Hospital. Inside was a list of doctors with a brief history about each person. He had read the files carefully again last night, and the number of potential candidates for the job was down to three. After this morning’s phone call, he had just one day to select someone and make contact.
Plenty of hungry doctors were out there. He only needed one.
Chapter 1
It was the last question of the last exam of medical school, and Steve Carmichael was about to finish. The most important indication for preoperative antibiotics in a patient suspected of having appendicitis is: A. To decrease the incidence of intraabdominal abscess formation; B. To help reduce postoperative pneumonia; C. To decrease the incidence of postoperative wound infections; D. To alleviate the need for postoperative antibiotics. He had no difficulty with this last question. He was asked a similar question by his chief resident just last week. Preoperative antibiotics would help reduce the incidence of postoperative wound infections. He marked answer C, collected his belongings, and handed in his test to the proctor.
After taking three surgical rotations as a medical student, Steve had decided to pursue a career in general surgery. While in the operating room, he was amazed that the human body could be opened and taken apart – and still function a few hours later.
As he finished the last moments of medical school, however, his thoughts weren’t on the miracle of medicine. Instead, he was focused on Joe’s Place, a small bar on the edge of campus. This was the traditional meeting place after finals. Nothing fancy: just a few pool tables, a 1950s jukebox with more recent tunes, and lots of beer.
When Steve arrived, half of his classmates were already past the point of no return. Six people were dancing on tables. Several others were playing billiards, about to lose their vacation money. The rest were just plain drunk.
What a sight for any patient of these future healthcare
providers.
The future was not a concern for these young med school grads, though. They had waited so long for this moment: to finish their final exam, to be done with the tormenting abuse from their residents, and to graduate from medical school. The end was in sight.
Steve sipped his beer and reflected on the path that had brought him to this point.
When he was young, he had often visited the practice that was run by his father and grandfather in northern Minnesota. They practiced at a time when doctors managed the whole patient, anything from delivering babies to removing gallbladders to treating asthma.
Steve recalled one episode with his father at the grocery store in their small town. An obese man had fallen to his knees and then onto the floor. The loud thump of this giant collapsing resonated in Steve’s memory. His father ran over to the man and put a hand near his mouth to check for breathing. The man’s skin turning purple confirm
ed that he was not breathing. Steve’s father yelled for the cashier to call the ambulance.
In the minutes before the ambulance arrived, Steve’s father saved the man’s life. Because the man was a patient, the doctor knew his last cholesterol level, his blood pressure, and his battle with obesity. He knew about the diabetes, the gallbladder surgery, and the concern about a heart attack several months back.
The doctor knelt alongside the unfortunate man and carefully tilted his head upwards with one hand on his forehead and the other on his chin. The doctor proceeded to give the man mouth-to-mouth breathing.
Dr. Carmichael had paused to check the man’s pulse and
then placed his hands on the monstrous chest. Palm over palm,
he started the chest compressions. He had asked Steve to
continue the mouth-to-mouth breathing.
The boy froze in his spot. He was just ten years old. He knew how to ride his bike, he could fly a kite, and he handled fishing just fine, but mouth-to-mouth breathing? No one had ever addressed that topic.
But somebody needed to get oxygen into the man’s lungs.
Steve tried to follow his father’s instructions. He gagged at the idea of putting his lips on this man’s mouth, but as he lowered his face, he realized that if he did not breathe for him now, the man would never have a chance to breathe again.
Young Steve leaned over the man, plastered his lips against his, and blew as hard as he could. He repeated the maneuvers, correcting his technique until he saw the man’s chest rise. Dr. Carmichael continued to provide instructions as they alternated breathing and compressions. Steve realized that he and his father were working as a team to save this man’s life, something the boy would never forget.
While Steve took breaks between breaths, he watched his father. He had never seen his dad work before. Sure, he went to the office to sit in the big desk chair and listen to the nurses say cute things about him, but never before had he been given the opportunity to watch Dr. Carmichael practice medicine. At that moment in the supermarket, he was proud of his father.
After what seemed to be hours, the ambulance arrived. The ambulance driver replaced Steve at the patient’s mouth.
Steve watched and admired how quickly and efficiently his father and the ambulance crew took care of the patient on the floor. They quickly secured patches on his chest to monitor his heart. They transferred him to a gurney and wheeled him to the ambulance.
Dr. Carmichael took Steve by the hand and knelt down to
his eye level. “I have never been so proud of you as I was just now. You are the best partner I could have ever asked for in this crisis. Now, go straight home and tell your mother what
happened. I will call her after he stabilizes.”
Steve knew then that he was going to be a doctor just like his father.
As Steve drank from his third beer, his friend Mary sat next to him. She threw her arm around him and offered her warmest congrats. They’d had lockers next to each other during their first two years. This may not have been a big deal in grade school, but in med school, it was important: you learned a lot about your neighbors. Not about their childhood or their last date, but what underwear they wore or if they wore any at all.
As far back as anatomy lab, everybody had to change into old clothes. Dissecting cadavers was messy business. Since there were no changing rooms, most people would undress right in the hallway. The few more discreet students would walk to the bathroom on the opposite side of the building, but by the end of the first month, nearly all students would strip right at their lockers.
That was how Steve and Mary had met.
She leaned over to his ear now and asked, “Are you wearing the boxers with hearts? You know they’re my favorite.”
They both laughed.
As Steve took another drink, he looked up at the T.V. A young female news anchor was educating the world on the latest headlines. “For further details regarding the U.S. embassy bombing in London, we’ll go to Sam Forsyth. Sam, what is the damage there, and do you know of any casualties?”
The screen cut to a male reporter who was facing a spot-light with a darkened city behind him. “Well Jane, there is a lot of confusion at this point. What we do know is that, at 3:05 P.M. Eastern time, there was a loud explosion from the front entrance of the embassy. The explosion caused major structural damage. Three are feared dead, and thirty-six are wounded in this devastating tragedy. At this point, the most concerning issue for authorities is those three missing people. We just discovered from an undisclosed source that one of those individuals is Phil Wells, who is believed to be connected with the CIA. At this time, no journalist or civilians are allowed within a one-mile radius of the embassy for fear there may be additional bombs planted in the building. No group or individuals have claimed responsibility, but the speculation is…”
At 2:00 local time, Steve had just walked into the Clarence Simmons Hall for the last final exam of his medical school career. As he tried to come up with the correct answers for clinical problems, a U.S. embassy was being bombed. Lives had been shattered.
He could spend hours reflecting on this matter, but not tonight. This was his chance to celebrate. He grabbed Mary’s hand and pulled her to the center of the room to dance.
The time passed too quickly. Before anyone realized it was late, the lights at Joe’s were turning up, putting an end to the celebratory ambience. Like any other med school celebration, no one was ready to stop partying.
Don Smith offered to perpetuate the party by moving it to his house. “Well, it’s the house that I rented. Well, it’s not exactly a house, but more like a two-bedroom guest house that belongs to an elderly couple.”
Steve knew that Don helped out with a few chores on this ten-acre estate, and for his help, he got room and board for a ridiculously low fee. Everyone in the class was envious. Fortunately, Don was a man of generosity and had offered his home for numerous parties in the past. The best thing about having parties at his house was not the ten acres of beautiful rolling hills or the secluded location of this dream house, but the fact that the backyard had a lake.
Everybody thanked Joe drunkenly. A bus had been arranged by Joe to take everyone home after the bar closed. Instead of
touring the neighborhoods, the bus just had to make one stop.
As he rested his head on the back of the seat, Steve tried his best to keep his head from spinning. He listened to the all of the commotion around him. He knew most of these students relatively well, but there were a few with whom he had never studied or socialized.
Tonight, though, everybody was everybody’s best friend. No competing for the best score on the physiology exam, no challenging who could offer the most information on medical rounds, no showing off for chief residents or staff doctors. They were all the best of buddies, celebrating the accomplishment of finishing a grueling four years of medical school together.
Deagan O’Brian sat next to him on the bus. Deagan looked at Steve, gave him a big hug, and collapsed on his shoulder.
Steve smirked and gently pushed his best friend against the window.
Deagan had also elected to enter the surgical career.
Although they shared the same interest in surgery, Deagan had decided to go into the field from the moment he was born -- or at least early in life. Maybe it was all the knot tying as a Boy Scout or part time work as a carpenter, but whatever the reason, Deagan knew all along that he was going to be a surgeon.
He had decided to attend a plush training program. The program was somewhere in North Carolina. It only took two residents a year, then treated them like kings and queens. Every fourth night, the residents had call with teams to draw all the blood. They had technicians that would get EKGs at any time of the day or night, and they provided unlimited food, twenty-four hours a day. Whether it was post-call, pre-call, or no call, the resident always had access to gourmet food.
Steve’s decision to enter the surgical field was not deter-
>
mined prior to medical school, and he had elected to stay at the university to complete his surgical training.
As it turned out, after the first week of his general surgery rotation, he wasn’t impressed with the field. He witnessed fatigue, emotional abuse, intimidation, and general displeasure among the residents on his service.
Each surgical service or team was comprised of several people, beginning with one or two staff surgeons who almost never spent time with the team or their patients. Next in the hierarchy was a chief resident, someone in his or her final year of training for general surgery. Depending where one trained, this could happen anywhere between their fifth and eighth year of training. He or she could make your life miserable or wonderful during this unique experience. Then there would be one or two junior residents, people training in general surgery who had already completed four years of medical school and one year of surgical internship. The junior residents were a variable group of people. Some were nice, and some were jerks. The team would have one lonely intern, a poor soul fresh out of medical school, ambitious yet usually the scapegoat. It was much more appropriate to chew the intern out because the medical students were not expected to know all the information, and the junior residents had already been there. The team was rounded off with one or two medical students. Usually one was a third-year student on his or her first surgery rotation, the greenest of green, and the other student was a fourth-year taking extra surgical rotations to determine whether or not to pursue surgical training after all. Medical students were not abused on the surgical service, or at least not as badly as the residents were.
Although most students feared the surgical clerkship, Steve’s third-year experience started out wonderfully. No abuse, no intimidating attitudes, no condescending remarks – for the first six hours or so. Then the chief resident had finished his surgery. He introduced himself as Jeff Levinsky but did not shake hands, did not smile, and did not seem to like Steve. He gave his staff a list of things to do and then disappeared. The residents took off to get their work done so they could get home before midnight.
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