“Yeah? Then why, Gabriella, does it feel like I just got beat down?”
“Well, Chris, that’s because you don’t trust people and you love punishing yourself when things don’t go your way. Should I continue?”
“No, I think we got it,” Christopher responded tartly.
“Ma’am? Gabby, right? It’s a pleasure,” Jackson said, extending his hand.
“First, let’s get something straight, Sergeant Major Williams. Don’t call me Gabby. I am not your cute little something waiting at home, impressed that you’re in special operations.”
“Ma’am, I didn’t mean—”
“Next, you can call me Gabriella or Doc or even something crude if I am not around, but drop the Ma’am and Gabby. I work just as hard as you do.”
“It’s so sweet to see that you’re still setting the world on fire with your charm, Gabriella,” Christopher taunted.
“Okay, enough, smart guy. I was very sorry to hear about Rev. He was a fantastic soldier and man. Listen, I’ve got to run, but trust me when I say you’re not going anywhere and neither is Omega. Expect a call from Colonel Delmar tonight. Good-bye, Sergeant Major Williams.”
“Wow, I think I am in love,” Jackson said, almost laughing, as he watched Gabriella walk toward the West Wing of the White House.
Christopher chuckled. “Gabriella would eat you alive. I met her when I first got to Omega, and we were sent to Syria when that crisis kicked off. She was the lead country analyst within the CIA at the time. Gabriella was the only woman on the ground but made sure we all understood she was definitely not weak or fragile.”
As the two men walked back to the SUV where Joe Cunningham waited, Christopher told Jackson that the hazel-eyed Gabriella had been a love interest of his before Erin.
“Yeah? What happened?”
“Nothing. I never even got the chance to tell her how I felt. It was as if Gabriella could sense my interest, and she rebuffed me one day after a meeting on Russian troop movements in Damascus. She told me we could never work. I was so shocked I couldn’t even say anything. Gabriella said that we both loved what we did too much to love someone else. You know, she is the only woman outside of Erin that calls me Chris.”
“Yeah, I could tell something had been between you at some point in the past, but, man, what a woman,” Jackson said admiringly.
As they stepped out into the fall afternoon, Christopher finished up the topic of Gabriella, giving Jackson further insight into her background.
“Gabriella is the daughter of an Italian vineyard heiress and an Air Force fighter pilot who flew with the president during the Gulf War. She is Ivy league educated—Columbia undergrad and Princeton for her masters and doctorate, and as you saw, brilliant at her job.”
“Yeah, I get she can take care of herself.”
“Well, I see you’re still alive,” Joe remarked cheerfully as Christopher and Jackson climbed back into the SUV. “Where can I take you, gentlemen?”
“Just drop us back at our hotel in Crystal City. There is no need to fret about the future as it seems we are going to have at least a few days off,” Christopher responded.
“Man, I know just what we need tonight—crab cakes and beer, and I even know the place,” Jackson said enthusiastically.
“I’m in, and thanks again for being here for me today. I wouldn’t have made it without you,” Christopher replied.
Jackson smiled and said, “Man, that’s what brothers are for. We have survived worse. This day was too easy.”
CHAPTER 4
As the SUV passed by the Lincoln Memorial, Christopher stared out his window, feeling defeated. For as long as he could remember, he had prided himself on being reliable and trustworthy, things he found impossible to believe outside of himself. Now he had cost his men their jobs and the credibility of the Omega Group because he had allowed himself to fall into the trap of entertaining God’s “voice” in his life.
That still, small voice—which, despite Christopher’s attempts to deny it, he knew was the Holy Spirit—had bombarded him over the last month, warning and pushing him to look beyond his job. For what? This? Just more pain and suffering. How could he trust God after this? How could he let God back into his life? Christopher’s thoughts flashed to Erin and her insistence that he start making an effort to trust God.
As the SUV made the turn onto the Arlington Memorial Bridge, Christopher noticed Joe’s praise and worship music was on again. A familiar tune from his childhood was playing on the vehicle’s speakers. “Hey, Joe, is that song ‘Everything Is Going to Be Alright’?”
“Yes, sir…”
“Joe!” Christopher screamed, but in an instant the car was pilotless and careening over the Memorial Bridge and into the Potomac River below. The impact and rush of water were shocking, as Christopher felt the stinging pain of a cut across his right leg.
“Jackson, are you all right? Jackson, answer me!” Christopher could see that Jackson was passed out, with water already up to his chest. He noticed a deep cut on Jackson’s head with blood pouring out. Christopher quickly reached for the window-break tool, grateful that the government had gotten something right in its bureaucratic method of purchasing vehicles. He broke his window and waited for the water to fill the SUV. He was momentarily glad that Jackson hadn’t put on his seatbelt as he pulled the limp man out of the window and toward the surface.
As Jackson and Christopher reached the surface, Christopher glanced toward the sinking SUV, half wondering if he had only imagined he saw Joe Cunninghman disappear before the crash. He got his bearings and swam toward the D.C. shore along West Potomac Park, towing Jackson behind him.
When he reached land, he found Jackson was breathing, but unconscious and bleeding profusely. Christopher, who always carried a knife, cut off a portion of his dress shirt to make a temporary bandage. With Jackson’s wounds taken care of, Christopher quickly inventoried himself and cut off the remainder of his shirt to tie around the gash in his thigh that was deep enough to need stitches.
Christopher had to fight to keep from going into shock as he took an assessment of what was going on around him. He found himself immersed in chaos. It was as if the whole world had been stopped and shaken like an enormous snow globe. The noise of car horns blaring from being pressed by deceased drivers, panicked drivers, and accident damage was unbelievable. Christopher felt like he was in New Delhi during rush hour. People everywhere were screaming incoherently from what Christopher could make out. His only thought was that D.C. had been struck by some terrorist act.
Moments later, the life-draining roar of a jumbo jet that seemed about to land on top of them slammed Christopher to the ground; he instinctively covered Jackson with his body. The plane slammed into the nearby Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, causing a loud explosion and more screams. Christopher’s instincts kicked in as he limped toward an empty sedan near the Memorial Bridge on-ramp. He opened the passenger door but immediately fell back at the sight of a woman’s clothing and what looked like metal dental work in the driver’s seat. He was startled by what seemed to be what was left after the driver just stepped out of everything and headed off to who knows where.
The mystery woman’s car had crashed into oncoming traffic, killing the other driver. Christopher pushed the woman’s clothes and fillings out of the driver’s seat and drove over to a still-unconscious Jackson. He strained as he carefully laid Jackson across the rear seat. As he buckled the center seatbelt around Jackson for safety, he laughed ironically since his lack of a safety belt is what had allowed Christopher to easily save him from their sinking vehicle at the bottom of the Potomac. Christopher knew he had to get Jackson to an area hospital as quickly as possible, which, according to signage on the Memorial Bridge, was George Washington University Hospital.
Christopher turned on the radio to get some idea of what was going on. Instead of information, he was greeted with the piercing noise of the public alert system, but with no instructions following. He picked u
p the cell phone in the cupholder and tried to dial the Pentagon operations center, but received an error message that the system was overloaded. He drove through the park grounds surrounding the Lincoln Memorial and Reflecting Pool, attempting to avoid the ever-expanding gridlock on every road in sight. However, it was apparent that driving was not going to get him far once he left the grassy knoll of the park.
Everywhere he looked, people were in need of some form of emergency assistance as he rocketed around the Lincoln Memorial grounds, nearly hitting several waves of panicked and fleeing tourists. Christopher’s senses were overwhelmed. The blaring sirens announcing the approach of first responders seemed to be coming from multiple directions. Yet the realization of such a massive casualty event like this meant that the sirens would be like a mirage in the desert to a thirsty soul—salvation would be only an illusion for thousands.
The wall of people and wrecks at Consitution Avenue ended Christopher’s demolition derby. As he grabbed Jackson from the back in a fireman’s carry, streams of fire emanating from the leg wound raced up and down Christopher’s body. But he was determined to get Jackson and himself to the hospital—now over ten blocks away—on foot.
“Hey, what happened?” Jackson questioned.
“Oh man, I am glad you woke up! You’re heavy. I don’t know, but I think we’re under attack—planes are down, comms are down, and there are a ton of accidents,” Christopher said, propping Jackson up against a wall.
“Was it a nuke attack?”
“Nah, I didn’t see a mushroom cloud, but who knows? If the blast was far enough away, I suppose it could have been—in which case, you already know our prognosis.”
“Yeah, we’re dead men walking. But what happened to Joe?”
Christopher had a thousand-yard stare, and Jackson decided he might be in shock.
“Hey, what happened to Joe?” Jackson demanded once again.
“He’s gone…just disappeared, man. I don’t know what happened or what’s going on, but we’ve got to get to a hospital,” Christopher said, forcing himself to focus on a tangible person versus the ghost Joe had become.
“Do you think you could walk?” Christopher asked.
“Can a duck quack?” Jackson replied.
“I will take that as a Southern yes.”
Christopher’s thoughts whirled as he tried to understand a scenario where this much damage was done that was not a military attack. The carnage around them was beyond any war zone even a seasoned veteran could have imagined. Just in this small area of D.C. where they found themselves, it was easy to see that the death toll would reach the tens of thousands. Fires were raging out of control, vacated cars caused gridlock, and people lay dead or dying on the streets, not to mention the screams of those grappling with the apparent disappearance of many people.
Jackson leaned on a shell-shocked Christopher, afraid to ask what fears were running through his mind, but knowing it was likely the same that were in his own. His throbbing head and senses were overcome by the endless sirens and explosions in the distance, probably due to the unchecked fires raging around the city. The silence between the two men persisted due to fear on his part, but it was the voices of the nameless people they passed on the way to the hospital that fueled his worries. The conversations from the multitudes wandering the streets turned into a single cry of sheer agony that terrified him. They passed a man sitting on the curb crying into his hands as he wailed, “She’s gone! She’s gone!” And they saw that same scene repeated over and over again with increasing frequency as they drew closer to the hospital. People all around them were frantically searching and screaming for loved ones and collapsing in inconsolable grief when they couldn’t find them.
Jackson had witnessed something similar before, but in a war-ravished country where endless masses tried to escape the fighting; they were lifeless zombies dead to the world around them and the war that caused their pain. Now in his own country, that same look of desperation and despair had hit home. Jackson thought American society had been decimated by a not-yet-named nation or terror group, that war had once again breached America’s shores.
* * *
The scene at George Washington University Hospital was anarchy materialized. People were piled almost on top of each other in the emergency waiting room, and some looked like they were dead. The screaming people seeking lost loved ones or friends out on the streets were pouring into the emergency room waiting area in hopes of locating the lost. A frail older man who looked like he might be a security guard tried to maintain some semblance of order, but he was being shouted down and physically overwhelmed by the mob.
The stern but calm voice of a nurse blared loudly through a bullhorn: “LISTEN UP, I KNOW YOU’RE ALL HERE LOOKING FOR HELP AND ANSWERS, BUT WE ARE SHORTHANDED. THE FEW NURSES AND DOCTORS WE HAVE WILL BE COMING THROUGH TO TRIAGE THE MOST URGENT NEEDS AND ANSWER QUESTIONS. START FORMING FOUR LINES.”
Christopher and Jackson stood in a long line where people were pushing and shoving to get to the young woman running triage. It seemed every available nurse and doctor was working on multiple people, with more and more patients joining the queue every minute.
Jackson instructed, “Look at that,” as he directed Christopher’s gaze to a pile of scrubs.
“Yeah, those are the people that disappeared, and how bad are you two hurt?” The same haggard nurse who had used the bullhorn earlier had made her way down the line to Christopher and Jackson. Her nametag said RUTH.
“My friend has a pretty big gash on his head and maybe a concussion, and I am in need of a few stitches,” Christopher responded.
“Ma’am, I will be fine, and I can see you folks are in need of some extra medical assistance. If you could just direct me to a treatment room, I could sew up my friend and myself, and I’ll even stick around to help you,” Jackson offered.
“Huh, you think I fell off the turnip truck yesterday, young man? You’re not stealing drugs out of this hospital. Now find a place out of the way and wait like all the rest of the lower priority folks,” Ruth ordered tersely.
“Ruth, Jackson is telling the truth. We are Army special forces soldiers and Jackson’s career field is general medicine. He’s basically a physician’s assistant,” Christopher said, assuring her.
“Actually, I am considered a doctor in most countries around the world,” Jackson quipped.
“Well, let me see some identification, ‘Doctor,’ because I’ve never seen a ‘soldier doctor’ with such calloused hands, a dirty uniform, and a half-naked friend,” Ruth ordered, directing that last remark to the shirtless Christopher.
Jackson pulled out his identification card and vouched for Christopher, whose wallet and phone were undoubtedly somewhere in the Chesapeake Bay.
“Well, I guess you two are soldiers. Follow me,” Ruth instructed.
“Hey, why are they getting treated?” a lady from the line protested.
“Ma’am, I’ll be right back to check on you,” Jackson promised as he winked at her with a blood-crusted eye, causing the woman to wince in revulsion.
Ruth spoke as the men entered treatment room one. “Okay, hop up on that table, Doc. Let’s see if you have a concussion. Sir,” she added, pointing Christopher to a chair, “strip down to your undies so I can fix you up next.”
“Ma’am, Ruth, I am okay,” Christopher protested.
“Look, I don’t have time for this. If the doctor here can help me, then that’s what’s about to happen. So strip down like I told you. I can see the bloodstains on your pants. Take off that uniform, too. It looks disgraceful in its current state. Put on a pair of scrubs, in the closet behind you.”
Christopher felt like a child at his grandmother’s house as he mustered a defeated, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Ruth, I am really okay,” Jackson told her.
“Really, let’s see,” she responded as she ran Jackson through a series of cognitive tests. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Two.”
/> “Okay, what’s today?” Ruth asked.
“The worst freaking day ever,” Jackson proclaimed.
“You’re well enough, and your attitude seems intact as well. Sir, hand me the gauze and that suture needle in the drawer next to you,” Ruth said, directing Christopher.
As Christopher handed Ruth the items, he asked, “So what do you know about what’s happened here in D.C.?”
“Oww…” said Jackson, scowling.
“Oh, hush up. You’re just a big baby,” Ruth scoffed as she continued stitching up Jackson’s head. “I don’t know much, but I will never forget talking in the nurse’s lounge when people just disappeared.” She shuddered as she spoke.
Another cry erupted from Jackson. “Ouch!”
“Shush! I’m all but done,” Ruth instructed as Jackson wriggled under her strong hands and will. “I am the head nurse on shift here—”
“No kidding,” Jackson quipped before letting out another yelp as Ruth tugged his wound closed, likely harder than necessary due to his wisecrack.
“So what happened?” Christopher asked again.
“That young nurse you saw out front came running up to me saying that her lead just disappeared.” Ruth explained that the young triage nurse was brand new and had been shadowing a veteran nurse. “Today is her first day. I thought the nurses were playing games, which I don’t tolerate,” she assured them.
“I can imagine,” Jackson said, smarting off again.
“Anyway, I followed her to a patient’s room, and sure enough, all of her lead nurse’s clothes were in a pile. It freaked me out so bad, I just told her to head back up front. Well, about that time, the alarm for a maternity floor security breech starting going off, so per protocol we head for assigned exits. As I was running to the ER front entrance, I notice two more clothing piles at my nurse’s station and…” Ruth’s tough exterior cracked.
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