The Missile Game (The Dr. Scott James Thriller Series Book 1) (9 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Transcript:

House Select Committee on Sentencing Guidelines

North Carolina State Senate

March, 2002

Dr. S. James:

“Ours is a merciful society, a society that values the rights of all our citizens, even the criminals who refuse to live by our moral values. In the worst of crimes, our state provides for the death penalty. But this capital punishment should not be a vengeful infliction of pain during execution.”

Sen. Hon. E.G. Higgins:

“Dr. James. We welcome your testimony. I have a comment I’d like to make, if I may. My daughter was brutally raped and tortured until she died. You want to put our hardest criminals to sleep, like a mother rocking her child at night.”

Dr. S. James:

“Uhm. No, Senator.”

Sen. Hon. E.G. Higgins:

“Are you volunteering to sing a lullaby as well?”

Dr. S. James:

“An early form of social justice was instituted by the French in 1792, the Guillotine. By this, the commoners were executed by the same instrument used on noblemen. This helped quiet a restless society. And we have a restless society today.”

Sen. Hon. T.W. Williams:

“Dr. James. You’re talking about … What did you say, ‘social justice,’ I believe? These criminals are dogs. They’re
dogs!
They should be stomped!”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Scott James Surgery Center

4:18 pm

I DIDN’T WANT TO be “stomped.”

The same drugs the state of North Carolina now used to execute criminals were in my pharmaceutical cabinet. I could end it all now
and save myself the anguish and humiliation of going through a trial and sitting on death row, waiting for the state’s executioner to kill me.

I walked swiftly to the OR, knocking over a chair and any equipment that blocked my path to the med cabinet. It was locked and I had no key. I pounded its door with my fist until I drew blood, then tore an arm board from the operating table and slammed it into the cabinet door. But the steel and tempered-glass was too strong and didn’t break.

Going to another cabinet, I raked surgical instruments and supplies to the floor, throwing aside delicate tools until I found a heavy, surgical mallet, and the osteotomes I used to fracture and move facial bones. With my skill and these instruments, I could create a facial structure that met my mandate for perfection. Now, I’d use them to ensure my own perfect death. I wedged the one-inch-wide osteotome in the door of the locked drug cabinet, made one sharp rap with the mallet, and the door flew open. I knocked bottles of pills and vials of liquid medications to the tile floor in my frenzied search for the right drugs: Sodium Pentothal for sleep and succinyl-choline for death.

My hands shook as I ripped open the packages and filled two syringes, one with Pentothal, the other with succinyl-choline. After placing the IV line, I inserted a Y-connector and secured the two syringes to it. I inserted the needle into a vein and withdrew the syringe’s plunger. I got a strong back-flow of blood

The needle was in a large, stable vein. There was no room for error. I had to inject the Pentothal as fast as I could and quickly shoot in the muscle-paralyzing succinyl-choline before the Pentothal induced sleep.

Then I would have a painless death.

My rambling mind thought of orchids. The Satyrium pumilum is called the “death flower.” It originated on the burial islands off Madagascar. Some Malagasy ethnic groups traditionally left their dead in designated areas to decompose in the open air, which aided in the evolutionary development of orchids with blooms that smell like decayed meat. These orchids attract pollinator flies and beetles that feed on the dead.

I needed to die. That was my only escape. I put the palm of my hand on the plunger of the Pentothal syringe, took a deep breath, and pushed it hard. The liquid coursed rapidly through my vein. My head whirled, and I fell to the floor.

Quickly, I shifted my hand to the syringe of succinyl-choline and pressed the plunger. Visual auras darted before me and I saw my parents, my children, and the faces of many patients. I felt myself floating and saw sparkling white trees swaying below me. As life ebbed from my body with each dying beat of my heart, I was engulfed in a bright white light filled with beautiful children, laughing and dancing, dressed in white. Suddenly, a white orchid appeared at my side. I took it in my hand and held it.

Finally, everything was peaceful and perfect once again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Drone Control Center, “Alpha Charlie”

Jackson City, North Carolina

4:31 pm

CHARLIE PUT ON HIS headset and flipped the switch. “Colonel Edwards, are you with me?”

“Yes sir, Alpha Charlie.”

“Do we have a secure voice transmission?”

“Affirmative, sir. Be advised. Most of our Kandahar crew is now in Iraq, much closer to our new mission.”

“Do you have targets spotted right now?”

“Negative. We’re just going to perform the laser test today.”

“Understood.”

Edwards had already launched the MQ-1 from Peary. The Predator was flying over Virginia, waiting to test Weizman’s laser. Edwards instructed Charlie to sacrifice one of the government’s remote-control Jeeps in a practice field in Fort Eustis. Located thirty miles from Camp Peary, along the James River near Newport News, Fort Eustis was the U.S. Army’s transportation center.

Edwards’ voice came back on in the headset, “Are you all set for the test?”

“Roger that.”

Homeland Security was anxious to have the laser-equipped Predator ready for service in the skies over America, and Weizman was anxious to confirm that his laser could function on the aircraft as well as it had in his California laboratory. If the laser worked, a Hellfire missile would be his next test target. Successfully killing a Hellfire in mid-flight with the laser was a realistic goal for Weizman, or so he thought, and would open the gates for a laser defense system that could stop in-coming intercontinental ballistic missiles.

Charlie looked over his chair and identified the controls. When his chair had first arrived, Weizman had taken special pride in informing him that the laser controls were tucked underneath and out of the way. They could be activated simply by voice command. Charlie had worked with the voice recognition software for all of ten minutes before the computer understood him perfectly.

Charlie said, now, aloud: “Dee Eee controls.”

Two joysticks slowly rose from below the seat of the chair.

“Everything feels good,” Charlie told Edwards. “Give me your best figure-eight with the robotic Jeep.”

The drone flew at 30,000 feet over Camp Peary. The sighting was not as difficult as Weizman had led him to believe. Charlie concentrated and put the sights carefully on the swerving jeep, then fired. A brilliant white light rose from the hood. Charlie felt like he was looking into a camera’s flash, one that went off continuously for ten seconds. The jeep immediately went out of control and then flipped over in a huge cloud of dust. The laser fried the vehicle’s fuel injectors, alternator, fuel pump, onboard engine computer—
everything
. The intense heat melted the vinyl seats and then set the entire jeep on fire. The explosion that followed was not very impressive. There was only a gallon of fuel in the gas tank, per governmental agency frugality.

The jeep lay dead now, with a huge plume of black smoke billowing from its flaming hulk.

Colonel Edwards congratulated him. “Excellent shot, Mr. W—”

“CHARLIE!”

Alpha Charlie jumped to his feet before Edwards finished his sentence. Glaring at Edwards in the monitor, he said in a low, threatening tone. “You will refer to me only as ‘Charlie.’ My name is never to be said to anyone—not to your co-workers, the other drone operators, the officers in your unit—not even to the President of the United States.”

“Sorry, sir. It was a slip-up. It’ll never happen again … Charlie.”

“Colorado State Legislature Bans Civilian Drone Ops”

DENVER POST

DENVER, CO The State Legislature has passed a resolution prohibiting the placement of civilian drone control centers in the state of Colorado. At odds with the Air Force’s huge presence in the state, the legislative body has taken the token step of bringing a non-binding bill to the floor. Colorado State Senator, Frank Teig, sponsor of the bill, said, after the vote, “We’re aware of the fact that there aren’t any civilian contractors working in the U.S., but in light of recent attacks, we just wanted to make an important statement.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Scott James Surgery Center

5:11 pm

“SCOTT,” KEYES CALLED OUT, as she entered the waiting room.“Scott!”

She moved quickly through the office. Reaching the OR, she stopped dead in her tracks. A chair had been smashed against a wall and the Bovie electrocautery machine was on its side on the floor. An instrument table was upside down and lying on the anesthesia cart. Surgical instruments, medications, and supplies were strewn all over the counter tops and floor.

Keyes raced to the recovery room and screamed when she saw James’ body on the floor. She kneeled and felt for a pulse. It was weak, almost imperceptible. In a moment of uncertainty, she paused before slapping his cheeks, hard. “Scott! Wake u
p!” There was no response. His face was pale gray.

Keyes placed her lips on his, squeezed his nostrils shut, and began blowing air into his lungs as hard as she could. His body twitched. She compressed his chest several times, and then resumed the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. After her first blow, he tried to breathe, but his airway was obstructed. Keyes shoved her hand deep down his throat and mopped out thick mucous. He inhaled with the heavy snore of a partial blockage.

Bottles and vials of medications were scattered all around. She recognized the empty succinyl-choline bottle and sighed relief at the large volume of unused medication still in the syringe in his arm. He’d injected less than 1 cc; the lethal dose was 5 cc’s. She jerked the syringe from the IV and threw it against the wall. She quickly looked at the labels on the drug vials, throwing them aside until she had the one she wanted: Narcan. It was a potent drug that reversed the actions of sedatives. She drew 10 cc’s in a syringe and stuck it his vein. She injected half of it, paused briefly, then shrugged and injected the entire bolus.

She used a catheter to suction the back of his throat and trachea, removing gobs of thick, white mucous. He started breathing easier.

She wiped the tears from her eyes and dragged James over to the anesthesiology machine. It was connected to three tanks: oxygen, nitrous oxide, and air. Holding his chin up, she put her mouth over his and blew her breath into his lungs six times. Then she fumbled with gas lines and placed the oxygen mask on James’ face. She grabbed the black balloon and squeezed as hard as she could. No oxygen moved into his lungs. The airway was still blocked.

Her heart pounded fast in her chest. She’d read about all these maneuvers and helped others do them several times in Houston, but never before had she performed them by herself.

Removing the mask, Keyes again reached her small hand deeply down his throat. His tongue was inverted. The succinyl-choline had relaxed the tongue and it had fallen back in the pharynx and was choking him. She pulled it back into his mouth. With trembling hands, she placed a plastic airway in his mouth to push the tongue forward. She quickly reattached the mask and squeezed the bag as hard as she could with both hands. Success! His lungs filled with air! Sweat dripped from her face and covered her entire body.

She sat on the floor beside James for half an hour, rhythmically inflating his lungs.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Scott James Surgery Center

7:30 pm

I WAS LYING ON the hard tile floor of the operating room. I tried to swallow. My throat was so painful, I gagged. My lungs burned with each breath. Putting my hand to my mouth, I coughed and felt a tingling sensation in my arm. I looked and saw that my entire forearm had ballooned out from an infiltrated IV of D-5½
normal saline. Reaching down, I jerked the malfunctioning needle from my arm. The cold liquid running from the IV saturated my shirt.

Then something moved beside me. I turned, and there was Elizabeth Keyes, lying next to me on the floor, staring at me.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

“Let me put that back in for you.” She studiously reattached the IV, then said, “Welcome back. I thought I’d lost you.” Tears welled in her eyes.

I reached out for her hand, squeezed it and then kissed it. “I thought I was in heaven when I looked up and saw your face. An angel, that’s what you are.”

“An angel, huh?”

“No. A hundred angels, for all you did for me.”

She took a deep breath and then asked, “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll live . . . ” I smiled.

“Not funny, mister,” she said, looking deeply into my eyes and not returning the smile. “You’re not gonna try that again, right?”

“No. I’m good. Especially if you stay with me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Keyes’ Apartment

1:14 pm

I OPENED MY EYES and saw Elizabeth beside me, in bed, in her guest room.

I’d slept restlessly since we’d returned to the apartment in the early afternoon. Each time I woke up, I’d look for Keyes, who was always at my side, smiling. Twice she kissed my forehead. I tried to stay awake, but kept drif
ting off. With our medical backgrounds, we both knew my somnolence was the result of the large quantity of Pentothal I’d injected into my body. Ironically, the Pentothal had saved my life. It knocked me out so fast that I was asleep before I could inject a lethal dose of the succinyl-choline. I did get enough of the muscle-paralyzing agent into my body to cause all over muscle fatigue, a “sometimes” side effect patients describe after the agent is used in surgery.

“Thanks for saving me,” I said when I awoke.

“Next time you wanna say ‘good-bye’, do it with a Post-it note or something.”

She left the bed and went to start making dinner.

As we ate, Keyes told me she had some errands to run. She also expressed her concern for the state of my physical and mental health. She said I still seemed sluggish, and she asked me pointed questions about my depression. I agreed I still felt achy and fatigued, but I assured her I had no compulsion to do the suicide bit again. No, I wouldn’t do anything further to harm myself. Yes, I promised to remain in bed if she went out.

As we were eating, there was suddenly a loud knock on the apartment door, so loud that it startled me and I jumped a little in my chair.

But Keyes was unfazed. Without a word of explanation she got up, went to open the door, stepped out, and closed the door completely behind her.

The stairwell was lit and visible from the living room window. I got up and stood just behind the curtain and peered out. Keyes was standing face to face with a woman with tousled black hair, dark sunglasses, and a deeply tanned face. She had the same hourglass figure as Keyes but was a couple of inches taller. A heavy cardboard tube lay against the wall of the apartment. It was the type typically used to carry architecture plans or nautical charts. After a brief conversation that I couldn’t hear, the woman handed Keyes the brown cardboard cylinder, then walked briskly down the stairs and out of sight.

I ran back to the hallway, cut back inside the kitchen, and sat down just as she came back in.

After she closed the door, I walked into the living room and asked, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Was that your friend? Was that Anna—Anna Duke?”

“Uhm … No. That was someone else.”

“What did she bring you?” I said.

“It’s personal.” She suddenly grew weary.
God, she looks tired. Like the weight of the world is on her shoulders.

I felt the overwhelming desire to help her. I said, “I truly appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You saved my life, for Christ’s sake! … Is there anything I can do for you?”

Her tears began to flow. I put my arm around her trying to console her, but she only stiffened.

“Yes, there is,” she finally said. “There is something you can do for me. I’ll tell you . . . later. But only if you promise you’ll do whatever I ask—no matter what it is.”

“The consequences of noncompliance?”

“Death,” she said quietly.

I laughed, but she didn’t smile. She wasn’t joking.

“Uhm, well … Remember, I’m suicidal, so dying is not a problem for me.”

That almost brought her smile back, but she just stood there looking at me and waiting.

I hadn’t given my promise.

“Promise,” I said softly.

“C’mon, let’s tuck you in.” Taking me by the hand, she led me back to the bedroom and softly pushed me back on the bed. “Oh, I forgot something,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

She returned with a glass of ice water in one hand and a folded newspaper in the other. She put the glass on the nightstand and tossed the
Chronicle
onto the bed beside me. “Reading material,” she said.

Within minutes of her departure, I fell asleep.