Apache Dawn, - [little bear else holmelund minarik txt] 📗

Brenda cocked her head, trying to work the cobwebs of sleep deprivation from her mind. Something wasn’t right and if her head didn’t feel so damn fuzzy, she might be able to puzzle it out. “Okay, a normal gunshot wound is one, maybe two bullets. Over in the Sandbox, we’d occasionally get a stitcher. Where the victim is perforated by a trail of bullets up the leg or the side.”

“Like in a drive-by,” agreed Dr. Fletcher.

“Right. But a double-tap, that takes skill. It’s where two bullets are placed on target real close together. The shooter aims and pulls the trigger twice in quick succession, with controlled movements to make sure that if the first bullet didn’t take down the target, the second one does. Usually placed center mass to make sure the heart is stopped.”

“Sounds like fancy shooting to me.”

“It’s how the military trains its best shooters. I’m talking Special Forces, that kind of thing. A gang banger is lucky to hit his target, first off. To pull off a double-tap takes a lot of training and skill.”

“What if some Crip just got lucky?”

“Three different vics, all with double-taps and a triple-tap on one?” She shook her head. “No way that’s luck. Maybe once. No, I’ve seen those wounds a lot in the Army. When we were attacked a few times at our bases, we had to go through the enemy dead and make sure…you know,” she said.

“That they were enemies?” asked the surgeon, eyebrow raised.

“That they were dead,” she replied coldly. “We weren’t there to make friends and win the hearts and minds of the locals. We were there to kill as many of them as possible to get Iran to surrender so America could focus on healing. But look,” she said, waving her hand, “the Iranians that I examined were nearly always taken down with double-taps. We had a lot of Rangers at our base. They’re pretty damn good shots.”

“So, let me get this straight,” Dr. Fletcher said around a mouthful of apple. “You think Army Rangers are out there in L.A. shooting people?” He grinned, white teeth flashing in the dimly lit room.

“No,” she laughed. “I think something strange is going on…I’m just trying to work it out so I don’t go crazy thinking that we’re facing H5N1, round two.”

“Fair enough,” he said, grinning.

The door to the lounge burst open and a breathless nurse stuck her head in, followed by the noise of a hospital in chaos. “Dr. Fletcher! The chief needs you, now. Oh, and you too, Dr. Alston. Come on, you’re not going to want to miss this!”

The doctors grabbed their gear and raced to follow the nurse in her pale-green scrubs, already heading off down the crowded hallway. She pushed her way past a few police officers, one with a bandaged head.

Brenda gasped as she stepped into the hallway behind Dr. Fletcher. “What the hell is going on?” she asked. There were people everywhere. Cops, paramedics, patients slumped against walls and sitting on the floor. More than one of the first responders was wounded, from the looks of all the bandages and torn clothing.

“It’s getting real hairy out there,” the nurse called over her shoulder. “ILI cases are up to about 40 an hour,” she said, gently placing her hand on a cop to move him aside. “GSWs are still coming in. Almost all of them are DOA. Now the police are getting wounded.”

“Did anyone say how?” asked Dr. Fletcher as he looked at Brenda. “Is there rioting or something downtown?”

“Nothing we can figure out, just shots coming from dark alleys or from behind. One cop who was over near the beach said someone dressed like a soldier pulled an assault rifle on him. He says his partner reported seeing boats by the coast, then this guy jumps up and yells something and starts shooting. Big damn gun.”

Dr. Fletcher shook his head. “That makes no sense at all.”

“Did we get anything else?”

“No,” said the nurse as she pushed a supply cart aside and headed for the double doors that guarded the entrance to the critical care ward. There were two men in black suits standing to either side of the door. “He died. Blood loss. The guy had taken three shots to the chest. Punched right through his vest like it wasn’t even there.”

“Armor piercing rounds,” Brenda murmured. Dr. Fletcher raised his eyebrows.

Brenda was still processing the nurse’s last comment when the two men in suits moved in unison to block their way to the critical ward. The facts were adding up to something that was really off-the-wall. Boats off the coast, strange men sporting automatic rifles and armor-piercing rounds. Military precision gunshot wounds. Now these two guys who looked like FBI agents. She frowned, unable to put her finger on the root cause of it all.

“It’s okay,” the nurse said, nervousness evident in her voice. “This is Dr. Fletcher, and this is Dr. Alston.”

Without moving or acknowledging the nurse, the man on the right lifted his hand to his face and spoke quietly into his sleeve. Brenda looked at his clean, close-cropped hair, and noticed the wary look in his eyes which never stopped searching his surroundings. She surmised immediately that the guy had military training at a pretty high level.

She turned to the other guard, whose mannerisms were identical. He was watching everything without spending too much time on any one person in front of him. He was alert, awake, and ready. He had the same, clean-cut, crisp, cookie-cutter appearance as the man talking into his sleeve, except he was black.

“Who are you guys?” asked Brenda.

The man who spoke into his sleeve looked at her and his cold gray eyes sent a shiver down her spine. There was no emotion there at all. No stress. In the midst of all the chaos of the shootings and mysterious illness, these guards were acting as if there were nothing wrong in the world at all. And at 0430 in the morning, no less.

4:30 am, she chided herself. It’s not oh-dark-thirty anymore—you’re a civilian, remember?

The one who had spoken into his sleeve touched his ear and nodded. “Okay, you’re cleared to take them back.” They stepped back and Brenda and Dr. Fletcher followed the nurse through the thick double doors.

“That was odd,” said Brenda. She stopped in her tracks when she saw the hallway before them. This area of a hospital would normally contain a few crit-care nurses and surgeons carrying charts or equipment carts, maybe a few family members of patients milling around. Brenda was fairly certain that men dressed for combat should not be here. Tactical vests, M4 rifles, helmets, and a whole gaggle of guys in those black tactical suits. She leaned to look around Dr. Fletcher—was that a German shepherd down there?

“Janice, stop. Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on in my hospital?” barked Dr. Fletcher.

“Lewis,” called a familiar gruff voice. “Over here,” said the chief, waving from just down the hall. He was talking to a man in full battle load-out who nodded in agreement and marched off, his rifle hanging by a combat sling at his side.

“George, seriously, what the hell?” asked Dr. Fletcher with a sweeping gesture of his right arm that encompassed the overcrowded hallway. “We going to war?”

“Maybe.”

“What?” said Brenda and Dr. Fletcher at the same time.

“We have a VIP down there in Suite Six.”

“Who?” asked Dr. Fletcher.

“The President of the United States,” said the chief, rubbing his eyes. “And I’m getting too old for this shit,” he muttered.

“Okaaay,” said Brenda. “Why is he here? If this is another stunt to gain publicity for his re-election campaign…”

“He’s presenting with what we think is our mystery ILI.”

“How serious?” asked Dr. Fletcher.

“Right now, he’s got a fever of 104.5, half-delirious, increased heart rate and some bleeding from the mouth and ears. I swear, this thing looks more like hemorrhagic fever than influenza, but the tests—”

“How long?” asked Brenda.

“He’s been complaining of aches and pains for about 18 hours now, but took a real turn for the worse two hours ago. His personal physician made the call to get him here so he could be stabilized. They found what they thought was AFib on top of the flu.”

“Good Lord,” sighed Dr. Fletcher.

“And who are all these guys?” asked Brenda. She eyed the soldiers in the hallway. She was starting to wish her older brother Derek was here. He was a Ranger. She suddenly wanted someone right next to her, armed to the teeth, who she could trust.

“Those guys,” said the chief with a nod of his head, “are Secret Service. Outside of the people on this floor, no one knows the President is here. I’m told to make sure you understand this is a matter of urgent national security, what with Atlanta and all. No communications with the outside world until they say so. I don’t want to think what they’ll do to you if you get caught. Not under these conditions. Got it?”

Brenda shook her head in disbelief. She couldn’t even begin to try and process the fact that Atlanta had been wiped off the map the day before. There was nothing she could do about that and she had plenty of other things to worry about, right in front of her. “This is crazy.” She really wanted to talk with her brother, Derek.

And a martini. Definitely a martini.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” muttered the chief. “Look, I wanted my best people working on the President, Lewis, and you’re one of them. Dr. Alston, you’re the only