The Enemy Within

Thorn saw Helen lying motionless on one of the stretchers already aboard and stopped, rooted in place by his own despair. Paramedics surrounded the stretcher, working feverishly to stabilize her condition long enough to get her into surgery. One had his hands clamped around her thigh, holding the artery closed, while another slid a blood pressure cuff as high up as he could over the wound and started pumping it up, using the device as an improvised tourniquet.

An FBI agent he didn’t recognize stepped in front of him, motioning him away. “Sorry, sir. Medical personnel only. You’ll have to move back.”

A red mist floated in front of Thorn’s eyes. He moved forward, ready to fight his way through.

Flynn grabbed the agent and pulled him aside. He turned back to the blank-faced Army officer. “Go on, Pete,” he said gently. “Ride with her. I’ll take care of things here.”

Still not trusting himself to speak, Thorn nodded abruptly and climbed into the waiting helicopter. He crouched next to Helen’s stretcher, trying to ignore the muttered exclamations from the paramedics working on her.

“God, what a mess! I’ve got a major impact wound right near the sacrum … Jesus, it shattered her pelvis… bone splinters everywhere…”

“She’s deep in shock and bleeding out… keep that pressure up!”

“Trauma, this is Medevac One-One. Request immediate clearance. Suggest you alert surgical team…”

Helen’s eyes opened suddenly, bright blue against skin so pale it was almost transparent. She looked up into his worried face and said in wonder, “Peter?”

He leaned closer, whispering, “I’m here. Remember that I love you.”

She smiled drowsily and closed her eyes. “First time you ever told me that…” She slid away into unconsciousness.

The Blackhawk lifted off, climbing steeply as it flew north toward the hospital. Peter Thorn sat silently, holding Helen’s hand. Tears ran unnoticed down his face. He had some of the answers he had been so desperately searching for.

But the price had been terribly high. Too high.

CHAPTER 22 TARGET ACQUISITION

DECEMBER 5

Trauma Unit, Walter Reed Army Medical Center.

“Colonel Thorn?”

Peter Thorn stopped his pacing and turned abruptly at the sound of his name. He found himself facing a haggard, unhappy-looking man still wearing a surgical smock.

“My name is Doyle. I’m one of the trauma unit surgeons here. I understand you’re waiting for news about Agent Gray?”

Thorn nodded, holding his breath. He’d been besieging the medical center’s volunteers for information since the paramedics first wheeled Helen off the helicopter and straight into emergency surgery. After making an awkward call to her parents back in Indiana, he’d been left with nothing to do but stare at the pastel walls in the visitors’ lounge. Either that or to sit watching the clock as the hours ticked past.

He fought to control his voice and asked, “How is she?”

“Not good, Colonel,” Doyle said bluntly. He shook his head. “She suffered two very serious wounds. The first injury, the one to her femoral artery, was bad enough. We’ve repaired the artery after some pretty delicate vascular surgery. But she’d already lost a lot of blood and she was pretty shocky when she came in. Despite the units we’ve put into her, her blood pressure is still abnormally low.”

The surgeon frowned. “I think that’s from shock, but I want to monitor her very closely over the next several hours. If her pressure doesn’t start coming back up soon, that could be a sign of continued internal bleeding. I’d have to reopen her to make sure we didn’t miss anything the first time through.”

Thorn nodded grimly. He’d seen enough soldiers wounded in combat to know how dangerous shock could be. It was often the first killer. Helen had survived the first crisis point, but going back into surgery in her weakened state might be more than she could stand.

“Frankly, though, Colonel,” Doyle said slowly, almost reluctantly, “it’s Agent Gray’s second wound that worries me.”

The surgeon lowered his voice. “She took a 7.62 mm ricochet that shattered her pelvis. The impact pushed bone splinters and bullet fragments into her peritoneal cavity.” He spread his hands helplessly.

“So we’re looking at a severe risk of infection even a likelihood, I’d say. I’m starting her on a massive multi-antibiotic regime to fight that off, but it’ll be touch and go for the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours.”

“Christ.” Thorn closed his eyes in pain for a moment and then opened them. “Is that the worst of it?”

Doyle paused. “No, sir. I wish it was. You see, that second bullet struck very near the plexus of nerves at the base of her spine. If those nerves were irreparably damaged… well, she might never walk again.”

Thorn stood silent, afraid to trust his own voice. The thought of Helen, so alive and so graceful in every move permanently confined to a wheelchair was too terrible to contemplate. Finally, he croaked, “Can I see her?”