MAYA HOPE, a medical thriller - The Dr. Nicklaus Hart series 1

by Timothy Browne, MD

  “Look, this may be one of our best shots for learning more about this elusive country.” The other official took his turn. “The North Korean government denied the release of the virus up until two months ago. But recently, it issued a statement of apology, saying that the people behind the incident had been punished.”

  “Of course, it had been the prudent thing to do, considering the world’s outcry and the Chinese cutting off funding to their country,” the first official added. “Otherwise, nothing has changed; North Korea is moving ahead with another nuclear test.”

  “North Korea—forever the enigma,” the other added.

  “So the bottom line is, we do not know what to make of the request and cannot guarantee your safety.” The more serious of the two leaned into Nick. “You could end up in one of the infamous prison camps, and there would be nothing the United States could do.”

  * * *

  As Nick sat in the presidential palace of Pyongyang, North Korea, he was reminded that Katelyn was the one who had convinced him to accept the invitation.

  The warnings from the State Department continued to ring in Nick’s ears as he waited in an ornate outer office of Kim Jong-un’s official residence. Nick had been waiting for over an hour. Sweat dripped down his back under his suit. The rush of adrenaline coursing through his body was almost unbearable.

  When the double doors swung open, Nick sprang to his feet to face a legion of large, robotic men surrounding a heavyset young man in a black suit with a North Korean flag pinned on its chest pocket. It was déjà vu—the exact representation, complete with the identical suit in the photograph of Kim Jong-un that the State Department officials had shown him.

  As he had been told, Nick bowed to the young man. Although he had already gone through a metal detector and endured a hearty pat down, Kim Jong-un stood a safe distance from him with two burly security men between them.

  Nick tried not to lock his knees and worried that he would pass out. The Leader stared at Nick, looking him up and down.

  Finally, Kim Jong-un gave a simple command, and his security men parted. A smile crossed Kim’s face. “Dr. Hart, welcome to North Korea. Won’t you please come into my office?” He spoke in perfect English.

  Kim Jong-un turned on his heels and went into his massive office. His security detail escorted Nick inside and pointed to the seat where he should sit. Kim Jong-un sat in a large ornate chair across from him.

  Kim said something to the security detail which did not please them, and a short, curt discussion in Korean ensued. Kim emerged the winner, and the security detail left the room, leaving Nick alone with one of the most feared men in the world.

  Without speaking, Kim continued to stare at Nick. Nick was getting even more nervous.

  Finally, Kim crossed his arms and said, “Dr. Hart, you have saved my country from a great embarrassment. The release of the M2H1 virus should have never happened. The men responsible have been dealt with.” He paused so Nick could digest his words. “You must wonder why I brought you here.”

  “Yes. Thank you for your invitation.”

  “I will not waste your time,” Kim said, getting down to business. “Dr. Hart, I am unsure how much you know about our history.”

  “Some,” Nick replied courteously.

  “And about our religious history?”

  “I’m afraid I know nothing of that.”

  “You see, Dr. Hart, I know you are a Christian.” Kim paused.

  Nick had no idea where this conversation was headed.

  “My great-grandmother was also a Christian.”

  The information surprised Nick.

  “A number of months ago, I…” Kim stopped and stared at Nick, sizing him up as if trying to decide whether or not to continue.

  “I’m not sure how to describe this,” Kim began, uncrossing his arms, leaning forward, and lowering his voice. “In a dream, a man appeared to me. He glowed like a bright light. He told me his name was Jesus, and he said: Why do you persecute me? And then he was gone. Dr. Hart, could you please tell me about this Jesus?”

  THE TREE OF LIFE

  * * *

  3 CHAPTER PREVIEW

  A crisis of Biblical proportions has just struck modern Turkey. A devastating earthquake threatens to destroy one of the most ancient of lands and cultures.

  At the same time, across the world, Dr. Nick Hart finds himself spiraling down in spiritual crisis, which threatens to undo all he learned and gained from his Christian conversion and the miracles he witnessed in ministry to impoverished Guatemalans.

  THE TREE OF LIFE, the sequel to the mystery thriller, MAYA HOPE, sends Nick off on another international adventure, where he is caught up in a quest to aid a devastated population and recapture meaning for himself.

  In so doing, he puts himself in mortal danger, falling prey to ISIS and crossing paths with Russians on a quest, themselves, for the fabled Tree of Life.

  Will he survive, and will he find Life beyond mere survival?

  PROLOGUE

  * * *

  SHAKEN

  Ibrahim stood at his bedroom window, wiggled into his jeans and pulled his T-shirt over his head. He scrunched his feet into his shoes, not bothering to tie the laces. His friends had started the game without him and he flew down the staircase and through the living room to the front door.

  “Ibrahim,” his mother yelled.

  His mother’s plea stopped him at the open doorway of the family apartment, long enough to gulp down the fresh air and stretch for the sun like a prisoner released from his cell. After being confined inside for two tortuous days, he was free.

  His mother had tried her best to entertain him during that time, but he’d been restless and refused to be comforted. She’d given him games, and cards, and books, but the games were stupid and he hated to read. His father, for the most part, was silent, parked in his corner chair reading old newspapers, and his bratty little sister irritated him like a buzzing mosquito he couldn’t swat. Worst of all, there was no television to watch. Their set had broken a year ago, and his father wouldn’t get it fix. But now he was free and couldn’t wait to be with his friends. He took the apartments steps down to the street two at a time, as his mother appeared at the doorway.

  “Ibrahim, Ibrahim,” his mother called, “tie your shoes, and please do not wander too far.”

  He crossed the street, paused on the sidewalk to fix his laces and closed his eyes. Sunshine hugged his shoulders. He was alive. His other senses woke up to his freedom. His nostrils flared with the aroma of fresh bread wafting from the corner bakery. His ears tuned to the everyday sounds of his neighborhood springing back to life—steel gates rattled as shops opened for business, a taxi parked at the curb honked for its passenger, and men and women chatted and bustled on their way to work.

  His friends call to him to play, and he heard his mother holler again, louder this time.

  “Ibrahim, please answer your mother.”

  He ignored her. Like many seven-year-old boys, he craved his mother’s attention, but not now. He had waited long enough and his friends were watching. It was time to enjoy his freedom. He meant no offense; he loved her very much, and he knew both she and his father loved him. One reason he knew that was because he was their only son and they’d given him one of the most significant names in Turkish history. The great Ibrahim was the father of the world’s great religions—not only Islam, but Judaism and Christianity as well, where he was called Abraham. Ibrahim’s parents reminded him often that he, too, would grow to become a great man.

  “Ibrahim!” His mother’s voice grew tense.

  He opened his eyes, and waved to his mother. She stood in the doorway of their small apartment complex across the street. Her long black hair, uncharacteristically uncovered by a scarf, fell around her shoulders. She looked pretty with her hair down.

  “Ibrahim, please stay where I can see you.”

  His mother glanced nervously up and down the street. She had good reason to be conc
erned. Rumors had flooded the city that the militants were nearby. No one seemed to know for sure, but his father said the newspapers were filled with reports of ISIS taking over northern Iraq and Syria. He had listened intently to his parents discuss the group’s goal of establishing an Islamic State in the ancient area of Mesopotamia, which included the region of eastern Turkey…their home. That morning at breakfast, his father murmured something about politics to his mother, but nevertheless appeared happy to return to his job at the bank.

  The entire population of Ibrahim’s city of Van had taken shelter for the last two days. Only a few people had dared to venture outside their homes. Everyone waited for violence, but the only sign of war had been a battalion of their own army rolling through the city, headed to the border between Turkey and Iraq to provide security. All was quiet. The rumors had turned out to be false.

  “I’ll be back for lunch, Mama,” he shouted over the sound of a large diesel truck rumbling down the street.

  She blew him a kiss. He wanted to blow one back, but not in front of his friends, who rolled a soccer ball to him. He skillfully footed the ball, bounced it onto one knee, then the other, and sent it back to his friend.

  He couldn’t help glancing at his mother to make sure she had seen his performance. She shook her head, and smiled. When he flashed her a grin and a thumbs up, she waved at him to go on and play.

  He had taken three steps toward his friends when it struck.

  Everyone froze in terror, turned to each other, and then scattered in every direction. One man dropped his grocery bags, spilling vegetables all over the sidewalk. Men and women screamed, but their cries were silenced by a horrific, thunderous roar, unlike anything Ibrahim had ever heard. Was it a bomb? Instinctively, his head snapped in the direction of the passing truck, expecting it to be obliterated, replaced by a huge crater in the middle of the street.

  The truck was intact, but the terrible sound increased, louder and louder, deafening: roaring, grinding, exploding. The air was choked with thick dust and heavy with fear. Ibrahim could no longer focus his vision.

  Instinctively, his attention snapped back to his apartment and his mother. Maybe the rumors were true, and the militants had just attacked with a rocket.

  The cataclysmic roar intensified as the street heaved upwards and split in two. His nostrils burned with the rancid smell of natural gas. His world was shaking so violently it could be only one thing—

  Earthquake!

  Disoriented, Ibrahim saw his mother fall down the steps, and then he realized, he too was flat on the asphalt. Life reeled in slow motion. He crawled toward his mother. He could see her shaking, trying to pick herself up. He heard her scream, but he couldn’t hear the words.

  He glanced back at his friends in time to see a huge concrete slab teeter from a building and slam to the ground. They disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  Ibrahim pushed himself up only to be knocked down again by the earth’s seismic waves under his feet. Screeching steel overhead forced him to cover his head. The sign advertising cigarettes crashed onto the car parked beside him, smashing its windshield and piercing his skin with shards of glass. Waves of thick, swirling dust saturated the sky.

  “Mama!” Ibrahim yelled, but he couldn’t hear his own voice.

  His throat burned with the acidic powder forcing him to gag and cough hard.

  He willed himself to stand, but the street shuddered so violently that it became impossible. Dripping blood, he pushed himself to his hands and knees in time to watch with horror as the three-story apartment building next to his began to crumble and implode.

  His mother’s eyes were ablaze with terror as she forced herself to her feet and screamed at him. He strained to hear, but no words were audible. She kept her center of gravity low and her arms stretched out for balance, only to be knocked back to the pavement. She would not give up. She pawed at the ground, pulled herself up, tumbled, and regained her balance, forcing herself off her knees.

  A large power pole slammed to the concrete, landing just feet from her and its transformer exploded into a shower of sparks. The severed natural gas line lit like an acetylene torch and roared to life, the heat scalding his face.

  Paralyzed with fear, he cried to her, “Mama, Mama.”

  Determination filled his mother’s eyes as she stood at the edge of the large fissure that ripped the road. She squared her frame to leap.

  He screamed to her that their apartment complex was collapsing behind her—his sister was still inside. The front of the building split off and fell toward them.

  His mother was in mid-air when the wall hit, slamming her to the ground and crushing her body. She landed only inches from him, but he could not move closer to her. Blood flowed from a split in her scalp and with a glimmer of hope, he saw her eyes were open.

  “Mama!” He reached for her. “Mama, please.” Her eyes went dark and absent.

  He tried to pull himself to her, but it was impossible, he couldn’t budge.

  “Mama,” he called, fighting to move, clawing the ground and stretching his body. Searing pain gripped his legs and he screamed in agony. His legs were trapped, clamped to the asphalt with unforgiving debris. Ignoring his pain, he lunged toward her. He forced his body forward, reaching for her, grasping, but he was only able to touch her long, beautiful hair.

  “Mama.”

  He gasped for breath. The air was thick with dust and smoke and death.

  His world dimmed. He knew no sound, no air, no pain…he knew nothing except his mother’s hair clutched in his fingers.

  “Mama.”

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  An Accident

  Midnight – Thursday

  Blood dripped from the operating table onto the floor and Dr. Nicklaus Hart winced at the bloody mess in Trauma 2 at the Regional Medical Center of Memphis, the MED.

  “He fell off the back of the speedboat,” explained Dr. Ali Hassan, Nick’s Trauma Fellow.

  Nick cringed. The eighteen-year-old would never be the same. It was a miracle that he had survived.

  “The rest of the boys were badly shaken up, but from what I understand, the driver panicked as the boat was swept by the current and threw it into reverse. I guess the propeller hit him like this…” Ali demonstrated with both arms and one leg pushed out in front of his body.

  Nick adjusted his surgical cap as he stared at the mangled flesh that used to be arms and at the ripped open knee, exposing a shattered patella. He shook his head and sighed. “We better cover him with every antibiotic known to man. God only knows what is growing in that water.” He wrinkled his nose at the mixture of blood and skanky water.

  The anesthesiologist painted the boy’s skin around the clavicle with sticky brown betadine and expertly slipped a large-bore subclavian line into the vein running under the collarbone to pour in much needed fluid, blood, and medication. The team had done a masterful job in resuscitating the young man who had arrived at the Emergency Department in full code with no pulse and minimal blood in his system.

  “What in the world were they doing on the Mississippi at ten o’clock at night?” Nick asked and cursed the heavy mist that had fallen over Memphis, obscuring landmarks and making the air disagreeably damp and chilly. “How did they ever find him in the river?”

  “They were waterskiing and just hanging out, I guess…drinking and smoking weed. Not a bad thing I suppose, because their lighters were handy to find this guy in the dark. One of them knew enough to throw tourniquets on his arms when they got him back in the boat.”

  The team of three anesthesiology Residents adjusted dials on the respirator, injected medications into the IV, and changed out one bag of blood for another. It was a blessing at the MED, a teaching hospital: there were plenty of hands for situations like this when Trauma 2 hummed with activity.

  Two separate scrub teams set up sterile tables of surgical instruments, and several nurses performed their duties with precision—slipping a catheter into the
boy’s bladder, making sure he was positioned carefully on the table, fetching last-minute instruments and medications, and helping the Resident doctors get into their sterile gowns.

  “You able to talk with his parents?” Nick asked looking at the mangled hands and arms. The left hand was barely recognizable with only the thumb remaining on the palm. Dead-looking mounds of muscle replaced a healthy forearm. The right side was even more unnerving with a near perfect, uninjured pulseless hand attached to the rest of the arm by shiny white tendons, stripped of their muscles. Shredded skin covered what was left of the elbow.

  “They’re all from Mississippi. And yes, they know it’s bad. I talked with his step-mom. His dad was too upset to talk. The family should be here by the time we’re done.”

  “Show me the x-rays and tell me your plan.”

  They walked to the large bank of lighted panels. Ali had already placed the most relevant films on the view box for his Attending.

  “I was kind of surprised to see the spiral fracture of the right humerus.” Ali pointed to the upper arm bone film. “I guess the propeller twisted the arm all the way up. The skin flap was pulled up to here.” He indicated on his arm above the elbow. “I could put a finger into the fracture. The elbow is trashed, but I think we should try to keep as much length in his arm as we can, so I thought we could put external fixation on the humerus after we debride all that we need to. I want to save as much skin as we can for coverage.”

  Ali didn’t have to mention amputation, that was a given. Nick saw shards of bone in what was once the forearm. There was nothing to repair.

  As he studied the x-rays, nurse Jasmine turned on the stereo, and music from AC/DC filled the room. He frowned. “You mind finding something a little more soothing?” he hollered above the organized chaos. She rolled her eyes and changed the music, and he heard James Taylor singing “Fire and Rain.”