The Kosovo Incident

THE KOSOVO INCIDENT

A Novel by

Richard Romfh

Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from religious conviction.

Blaise Pascal, Pensees, 1670 A.D.

Copyright: Richard Romfh, 2013

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be sold or given away. If you would like to share it with another person, please purchase it,or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, Richard Romfh, nor may it be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

Forty-seven

Forty-eight

Forty-nine

Fifty

Fifty-one

Fifty-two

Fifty-three

Afterword

Acknowledgements

About the Author

One

The Annex: a small, U.S. multi-service

NATO base in the south of Kosovo, Serbia.

19 December 2000

Weber trudged up the muddy perimeter path. He leaned into the wind, imagining he was warm—toasty warm—snuggling with Cece in a cottage on the isle of Kauai. Tomorrow we leave, he thought, and, in a week—Kauai.

Yet he felt uneasy. His grandfather’s raspy voice filled his head: Listen to you body, Pok. You body, he don’t lie.

Lightning cracked, splitting the heavens and lighting the meadow and hills beyond. Nothing moved. With the boom of thunder, a bullet tore through his poncho and popped into the mud. Weber scrambled, splashing and leaping over guy ropes between the tall tents.

He cut onto the mid-base road. Once out of sight of the perimeter, he bent over, hands on knees, spitting, catching his breath. He dragged a wet sleeve across his mouth and wiped his trembling hands on his poncho. The tent hospital stood quiet, its vinyl windows spilling light onto the boggy road. Weber pulled out his cell phone and sucked in a breath. Stay calm, he told himself. Keep your voice steady. He tapped in the number.

Guard shack. Corporal Allen.

Colonel Weber, here, reporting sniper fire, north perimeter. He filled in the details and clicked off. Next he started punching in Bradley’s number; Max Bradley, the 7th Air Transportable Hospital commander, was covering that day for the army base commander. Weber slapped his phone shut and dropped it into his pocket. The guard shack could handle it.

Beyond the hospital, the road was dark, walled in by two rows of GP medium wall tents. An old fear twisted his gut. He clicked on his flashlight and broke into a jog, mesmerized by the sound of his boots crunching rain-slicked gravel; his light beam bounced off khaki-colored puddles. If he hadn’t reacted back there, he’d be lying in the mud wounded, possibly dead. If he’d survived—he’d probably wish he hadn’t.

Across the muddy clearing loomed the plywood mess hall. It reminded him of a Vietnam hooch during monsoon season, only larger. The misty rain made the light above the door glow like a dandelion blowball. Army peacekeepers had taken down the nearby tents—tents that would’ve shielded people from the perimeter. He blinked. A short, hunched-over airman staggered across the clearing; his armored vest hung to his thighs.

Hey, Weber shouted. This way.

He jogged over and grabbed the young airman by the arm. There’s a sniper out there, he said, pointing toward the north perimeter.

The airman stood motionless, fists clenched, face strained. Got the runs, sir. Gotta go bad.

Use the privies by the hospital, son. Stay clear of the north perimeter.

Wind banged the mess hall shutters. It plastered Weber’s poncho to his chest and flapped it behind him. Cold rain pelted their helmets and shoulders and splattered in the mud.

Let’s get out of here, Weber said. And he dashed across the clearing.

*

High in a giant oak, Ratko Rakočević, Serbian paramilitary sniper and commander of the Kosovar Škorpioni Militia, sighted his night-vision scope onto the NATO base, 420 meters across the pasture. Two men were talking at the edge of a clearing. The tall, slim man was the one he’d fired at earlier. While climbing to his perch, he’d bumped the scope against a limb. He’d thought it wouldn’t affect accuracy, but from this distance, a millimeter difference might throw the bullet off 8 to 12 centimeters.

Ratko zoomed in on the tall man: dark skin, high cheekbones like a tribesman from the north of Russia, or perhaps, an American aborigine. The rank stamped on his helmet was a black spread-winged eagle with talons clutching arrows—a bird colonel. Both men wore Red Cross armbands. Physicians? Neh. The colonel, perhaps, but the short one wore enlisted chevrons.

Wind whipped the trees as it drove the rain across the pasture in a blinding, spiking cadence. Ratko tucked his Sako TRG 22 sniper rifle beneath his poncho, and gazed upon the base. He would kill these non-Aryans, if needed, but tonight he wanted to wound, for a wounded man consumed time and personnel, igniting fear and anger. Wounding an American on the eve of their departure might provoke one of them to violate the pullout agreement, halting NATO’s condoning of šiptar—Kosovar Albanian Muslim—attacks on Serbians and other minorities.

He’d continued to kill šiptar, even though they outnumbered Serbs, nine to one. Kosovo was the heart and soul of Serbia. Some 500 years earlier when the Ottoman Turks took over the region, the Albanians converted to Islam, but Kosovar Serbs remained true to Christianity. God had visited him in a dream and told him he would be the key to liberating Kosovo from Islam.

Hooking his elbows over a gnarled limb, he glanced up to where the tree had wrenched apart in an earlier storm. The split trunk gaped wide and deep, and would conceal his wiry body. Weeks before, he’d wedged a plank in the split, waiting for this day. Rain skittered down his grease-painted face. He shifted position—legs stiff, butt wet and sore. Even so, he welcomed the rain; winter snows were late this year and his camouflaged battle dress uniform—the BDUs he stole from an American he’d killed—blended well with the tree trunk.

Ratko lifted his rifle and scanned to the left across the American drill field, to the trees on the edge of the quarry cliff. Sweeping to his right, past the gravel apron in front of the brightly lit hospital tents, he skimmed above the village of mud-green wall tents, to the clearing. The tall colonel was running toward the dining hall. The short enlisted man remained.

*

Weber burst through the door. The howling wind blew rain in around him. Several people glanced over. He nodded and shut the door. The mess hall was two-thirds empty. Scorched air pressed down from space heaters in the rafters; the steam from overcooked meats and vegetables was stifling. He waded through an armada of picnic tables to where Colonels Max Bradley and Cece Hernandez were seated. He leaned his outstretched arms on their table.

Bradley glanced up and took another bite.

Cece’s chocolate-brown eyes drew him in. What’s up, Web? she asked.

Weber fixed his gaze on Bradley’s scalp. Max, they call you about a sniper?

We’re checking it out. Bradley rolled his eyes upward and continued chewing. You sure you heard rifle fire?

Max, issue firearms.

Max Bradley shook his head. No, my friend, we’re leaving in a day. Besides, our people are noncombatants—if a frightened med tech were to shoot somebody, it could cause . . . He tapped his fingertips on the table. Missed you at the briefing.

Briefing? Weber raised his eyebrows.

If you’d been there, you’d know that the Serb paramilitaries are out to hassle us. Bradley fingered his moustache. INSCOM doesn’t think it’ll amount to much.

Damn it Max, I was nearly shot, and army intelligence doesn’t think it’ll amount to much? Hell, Belgrade can’t control the militias. At least they say they can’t.

Bradley lifted his fork. We’re leaving. It makes no sense for them to stir up trouble now.

Humor me, Max. At least, cut the goddamn lights.

Bradley looked up, his pale blue eyes unblinking. You’re dripping on my table, champ. Hang up your poncho and grab a bite to eat before they close down the chow line.

*

Ratko focused on the short man trudging in ankle-deep muck: mud race, darker than the colonel, and wandering in the rain without a poncho—typical. The man staggered toward the portable toilets on the western end of the north perimeter.

Lowering his rifle, Ratko surveyed the terrain around him: no movement, no sign of soldiers, rain steadily falling. A wind gust whipped the trees. Temperature: two degrees Celsius. He reached for his data book then stopped. It was tucked away, dry and secure, next to his journal in the waterproof pouch beneath his parka. Ratko closed his eyes and pictured the appropriate page of scope settings—but he didn’t trust this scope. Though a laser could be easily spotted in the rain, he needed to risk it. He lifted his rifle—the swaying tree made it difficult to steady the weapon—this might be his last chance.

Come, mud boy, he whispered. Thirty meters more.

The young man staggered to beneath the lamppost near the chain-link fence, and stopped. Hunching his back to the howling wind, he tore at his armored vest.

Ratko clicked his day-night scope to day and sighted on the man showered in light and rain. Sing, little bullet, he said. Sing and strike fury into the Americans. He eased out his breath.

Mud boy yanked open his vest.

The blood-red laser streaked through the storm. Lightning flashed and Ratko fired. The sound was muffled in thunder.

Two

Weber bolted up. Hear that?

Cece flashed a crooked smile. Web, it’s only thunder. She stared at him with an expression that said he was overreacting.

Bradley mumbled, his mind obviously elsewhere. Nobody reacted. A gust banged the shutters against the wall. Rain hammered the metal roof. Feeling self-conscious, Weber shrugged and sat down. He could’ve sworn he’d heard something besides thunder. Had he imagined it?

*

Ratko scurried up the tree and folded his body into the split, tucking his insulated, camouflaged tarp about him. Unless they used a thermal-imaging device—though his sources had assured him none were on the little base—they’d never detect him. The tarp reflected his body heat inward while the outside remained as cold as winter rain. In this downpour, even their hounds couldn’t scent him. When the soldiers arrived, they wouldn’t see him; he would become as part of the tree. And come they would; of that he was certain.

He sat with his knees against his chest on a plank he’d wedged in the defect. Raising an edge of the tarp, he focused his binoculars on the victim. Mud boy plopped a muddy hand onto his abdomen. Ratko sensed poetry in the scene: Mud boy, mud boy/ Mired in muck/ Under a weeping sky. Later, he would record it in his journal.

Ratko bowed his head, closed his eyes, and whispered, Thank you, Almighty Creator. Mission accomplished: Target down but alive.

Another man approached, looking downward as he trudged toward the toilets. His head jerked up. He rushed to the wounded man and whipped out a cell phone. Within seconds an ambulance sped toward the scene.

*

Weber’s cell phone beeped. He fumbled it out and barked his name.

Sergeant Stokes, ER, sir. We’ve dispatched an ambulance to the north perimeter.

Weber stopped chewing. And? He waited. Bradley and Cece were watching him.

GSW. An A1C. Perimeter guards suspect sniper fire, sir. We need you, ASAP.

On my way, Sergeant. Weber shoved the phone in his pocket, and, gripping the sides of his tray, he stood. You’re right, Max, he said.

I’m right? For once, you’ll admit I’m right. Bradley’s smile lifted the wings of his moustache.

"A sniper is harassing us. And firearms aren’t the answer—the guy wants us to react. Weber stepped backwards over the bench, Maybe we should all go hide."

What are you saying?

An airman’s been shot. North perimeter.

Bradley swung his legs over the bench and stood up. They should’ve called me.

In an instant, Cece was up beside him.

Bradley’s phone jingled. His hands shook as he flipped it open. Colonel Bradley, he snapped. Who? Butler? The new guy?

Cece grabbed her tray. Bradley caught her by the sleeve and barked into the phone, Cut the outside lights—now. Spread the word: no unauthorized lights, including the hospital.

Weber strode to the chow-hall door.

*

Ratko peeked through the crack between the tarp and tree. Lights blinked off around the base. An armored personnel carrier maneuvered out the gate, headlights off. Red lights swarmed into the meadow like drones searching for a queen. He’d angered the Americans, but they had no one to attack. He flattened himself against the wood and snugged the tarp tighter. Tomorrow, he thought, I will provoke them to bare their stingers.

They might call in a helicopter. An ambulance would have to creep along these muddy roads. If the man were in shock, they would not wait. Neh, the surgeons here would operate. Ratko shifted his butt, pulled on his night-vision goggles, and peered out into the rain. The soldiers’ red lights winked off, one by one. They, too, were switching to night-vision goggles; they looked like extraterrestrials in an old, science-fiction cinema. He eased off his goggles and checked the tarp to make certain it was tucked well into the split. After a night like this, he thought, each soldier would be as tense as a boil on a whore’s groin.

*

Weber jogged down the mid-base road, triggering bursts from his flashlight. The darkness spurred him on. In spite of the temperature, sweat dampened his armpits. Lightning crackled across the sky. The hospital TEMPER tents stood out from the mud-green, windowless tent quarters: five tall buff-colored tents stood side by side, a few yards apart, like cloned fabric buildings linked by narrow tent hallways. Light poured from the ER’s vinyl windows and seeped around its metal doors.

He shoved the double doors open; rainwater streamed from his poncho. Two ER techs were chomping heavy shears through the man’s muddy uniform. It was the airman from outside the chow hall.

Weber slammed the door. Okay guys and dolls, listen up.

Everyone stopped and looked his way.

You heard the announcement. Cut the goddamn overheads.

The brightness faded. Three tall gooseneck lamps remained on. Weber motioned with his head. Bend the goosenecks low. To the emergency physician, he said, Carson, help me get his helmet off and move him from the spine board.

Doctor Carson craned his neck. B-but we haven’t g-gotten a cross-table-lateral C-spine film. They shipped off the X-ray department—the whole daaa-gum Isoshelter—this afternoon. But we do have a portable. A tech’s un-p-packing it. He’ll have to develop the film by hand. And—

Bullshit, Carson, the guy didn’t break his fucking neck—he’s been shot. Weber dropped his helmet, poncho, and flashlight to the floor and stepped closer. The airman’s lips were blanched, his conjunctivas chalky. Keeping his voice low, Webber said, We’ve gotta get moving—now. He squatted so his head was level with the patient’s. What do your friends call you, son?

The airman winced. Reggie, sir. Reggie Butler.

Reggie, I’m Doc Weber. We need to do some necessary but uncomfortable things to you: put a tube down your nose, one in your prick, needles in your arms and maybe your chest. Bear with us, son. We’ll be gentle as possible. Weber patted him on the shoulder. I’ll keep you informed. Don’t worry, I’m gonna take good care of you.

Edging beside the litter, Weber tore the tape securing the airman’s forehead and chin to spine board. He slid his hands alongside the man’s face and, working his fingers beneath his helmet, lifted the man’s head a fraction, keeping his neck aligned with his body.

Okay, ease off his helmet, he said to the emergency physician.

Weber loosened the muddy cervical collar and gently probed behind the airman’s neck. Your neck hurt, son?

Butler’s breath fogged his vinyl oxygen mask. No sir, he said, lifting a hand. M-my stomach.

A lieutenant colonel with a weather-beaten face stepped to the head of the litter. Got his airway, Web. The nurse anesthetist looked around. Get me an AMBU bag, Sergeant.

Weber stayed focused on Reggie’s wound. Thanks, Sean. Glad you’re here.

Sean O’Leary turned the oxygen valve. Cranking to a hundred percent, Web.

Good. Weber continued to examine his patient.

O’Leary pulled on exam gloves. I’m gonna tube him. He squeezed the bag hard and fast, pumping in oxygen, and then slid a hand down the patient’s left arm and stopped at needle marks, still oozing. No IV?

He’s shocky. His veins are collapsed, Weber said. I’ll plug in a central line.

The technicians had finished cutting off Airman Butler’s uniform and boots. A fecal stench rose from the litter.

A tech called out: Pulse: 148.

Weber talked to his patient then stood up. Bill, stick a Foley in his bladder. Sean, put down an NG. He pointed to an ER tech. Get me a central-line kit, 14-gauge. Then he stared at the shift leader. Call Captain Parker and tell him to ready the OR.

The naked airman lay shivering on the litter, his eyes darting to those around him. Rain drummed a staccato pattern on the tent. Cece came in and began working behind the scene: supervising technicians, sending for supplies, teaching. Weber admired that in her: an executive who wasn’t above pitching-in.

A tech called out: BP: 70 systolic.

Weber nodded to another tech. Stack three pillows under his calves and throw a couple of blankets over him.

He needs blood, O’Leary said, one hand clamping the oxygen mask to Reggie’s face, the other hand squeezing the bag. Hate to tell you, Web, but we’ve shipped off our anesthesia machines. We need to call in a chopper and transfer him to Camp Bondsteel.

Weber backed to the head of the table, his forearms elevated, his gloved hands folded. Won’t make it, he whispered. Too much blood loss. I need to get in there and stop the hemorrhage. Would a high spinal and nitrous-narcotic work?

O’Leary swallowed. I don’t know. He shook his head and then called out, Get Doc Weber a syringe, so, once the line’s in, he can draw blood. O’Leary’s wrinkles pinched into a frown.

Weber painted the airman’s upper right chest with Betadine solution and draped off the area with sterile towels. Under local anesthetic, he inserted the large-bore needle into the vein beneath the right clavicle and drew blood. What do his tags say? Blood type?

A tech glanced at the dog tag beside the patient’s head. B-positive, sir.

Call the lab and tell ’em we need two units B-pos, non-crossmatched packed cells ASAP. Here, take this. Weber handed the technician the syringe of blood. Tell ’em we’ll need two more units to follow. Make that a total of ten, half of them whole blood, if they have it. And if they don’t, tell them I said to round up volunteers and bleed ’em.

Then he said to the anesthetist, Central line’s almost in, Sean.

The door slammed. Need some help, Doc?

Weber glanced up. Maj. Paul Williamson, a surgeon six months out of training, stood at the foot of the litter. Water dripped from his helmet; his poncho hung to below his knees.

Yeah, order some labs and get him some antibiotics. Weber continued to thread the thin catheter through the needle in the subclavian vein.

"Anything special, sir?

Weber focused on what he was doing. "Get a crit, a UA, and anything you think is indicated—stuff they can still do. Lab’s sputtering on one cylinder and last I noticed no litigating vultures were circling overhead. Give him whatever big-gun antibiotics haven’t been shipped. Cover all bases.

Yes sir.

Capt. Ron Parker, tall, thin, wearing green scrub pajamas under an old, cloth scrub gown, walked in pushing a gurney covered with a green sheet; on it, sat a pressure cuff for the IV bag. Doctor Weber, he said, his bass voice booming, I shipped off most of our expensive equipment, sir, including table-mounted retractors, laparoscopic instruments, and bowel staplers—

Marvelous.

But the OR, she’s clean. And Sarah’s setting up a general instrument tray. And we’ve got most sutures, sir.

Someone shouted, Stop! We can’t do him here,

All eyes turned to Maj. Steven Miller, the chief of anesthesiology, standing at the tent door. Icy wind snaked in around him.

Weber inserted a suture to secure the subclavian line to the patient’s chest. Close the goddamned door, Stevie, unless you want to get shot, Weber said. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cece holding the patient’s hand and talking softly to him.

O’Leary injected drugs into the central line and took an endotracheal tube from its sterile envelope.

Miller shut the door, pulled out a handkerchief, and began wiping his oversized, state-trooper-style glasses. He needs a general anesthetic and we have no machines.

Weber continued smoothing an adherent plastic dressing over the central-line site. For God’s sake, Steven, look at him. Weber knew the patient wouldn’t survive the delay. What else could they use? Then it struck him: How ’bout O’Leary’s teaching model—the jobber in the suitcase—or has it been shipped, too?

O’Leary perked up. No. It’s here. It works. And it’s clean and ready to go. Won’t take but a minute to retrieve it from the packing crate.

Miller grimaced. That antique? That’s a Vietnam holdover, good for teaching obsolete technique. It has no alarms or automatic ventilator. You have to squeeze a bag throughout surgery, for Christ sake.

You mean like I’m doing now? O’Leary said, his eyebrows furrowing his forehead.

Moreover, Miller continued, we don’t have any monitoring equipment. He raised his voice. Doing him here would be tantamount to malpractice.

Weber felt a hand on his shoulder and he heard Cece say: Doctor, maybe you should—

Parker, help us get him onto your gurney, Weber said.

Yes sir. Parker lowered the gurney’s side rails. Don’t worry about monitors, Colonel, I’ve called the ICU and they’re bringing a cardiac monitor and Pulse Oximeter.

Good. If we don’t get a move on—he might not make it.

O’Leary motioned Weber over, and whispered, He’s awake and can hear you. I’m using micro-doses of IV narcotic to take the edge off. Don’t want to bottom-out his pressure.

Weber knelt at eye level with his patient. Don’t worry, son, we’re not gonna send you out in this storm. We have everything we need to take care of you, right here. You’re bleeding inside your belly, and we’ve got to go in and stop the bleeding. First, we’re going to roll you onto your side and get you cleaned up. Then we’ll move you to a dry, comfortable cart and cover you with warm blankets.

He glanced up. Cece was standing over him, hands on hips, eyes glaring.

Weber turned to Miller. Join us, Steven. We could use your expertise. Sean will show you how we used to monitor patients by hand, back in the old days.

No sir. I won’t be a part of this. Major Miller stood erect. Colonel O’Leary, as chief of anesthesiology, I order you off this case.

Weber bristled but spoke softly. Major Miller, this ‘case’ is Reggie Butler, a man with a name. From now on, you are to refer to him as ‘Airman Butler,’ or ‘Reggie,’ or ‘this patient.’ Don’t ever let me hear you call him ‘case.’ Understood?

Miller blanched.

Sean and I are taking him to surgery. You’re welcome to come. Weber looked at the two technicians standing next to the patient. Roll him to his side.

Yes sir, they said.

Weber examined the wounded airman’s back. Blood flowed from a ragged hole in his right flank, two-finger-breadths wide. Weber gently scrubbed the surrounding skin and irrigated the wound with saline from the tubing leading to an IV bag while a technician cleaned the airman’s butt with a soapy hand towel.

Doctor Miller hunched forward, holding his forearms in front of him, palms up. But, sir, with all due respect, we can’t do him here. From an anesthesia standpoint, it’s substandard. He straightened up and folded his arms. I’ll have nothing to do with this operation.

Weber covered the flank wound with folded sterile towels. Then leave, he said.

They lifted the patient to the gurney. Captain Parker released the brake and grabbed the foot end and pulled. O’Leary, looking serious for once, followed at the head end, squeezing the bag to assist the patient’s breathing.

Miller’s mouth gaped as they wheeled toward him, heading for the tent hallway.

Excuse me, Doctor Miller, sir, Captain Parker said, brushing past. Then over his shoulder, he yelled, Tell the lab to send the blood to the OR.

Miller’s face tightened. Colonel Weber, if I have to, I’ll go to Colonel Bradley.

Weber marched behind the gurney.

Cece ran to catch up. Doctor, don’t you think—

Not now, Colonel. Weber stared straight ahead and kept walking.

Three

We’re losing him, O’Leary shouted. Pressure’s forty over zip."

Weber could barely hear him over the incessant pelting of rain. Blood here yet? he shouted from the tiny portable sink in the surgical supply tent where he and Williamson were scrubbing. The red-filtered light gave it the ambiance of a photographic dark room.

"Pushing numero uno. Belly’s expanding, better hurry."

Keep pushing. We’re on our way.

With the patient’s belly expanding with blood, the surgeons cut short their scrub. Elbows bent and hands held like praying mantises, they skirted the empty steel-rack shelving and half-full packing crates. Their stocking feet in paper booties made hollow thumping sounds on the ramp into the Isoshelter OR, a trailer with operating table, lights, and cabinets. Weber backed through the saloon-style doors into the OR. The bright lights, reflecting from the windowless white walls and ceiling, made him squint.

Airman Butler lay in the crucified position. Parker was scrubbing the man’s distended abdomen with a pink scrub solution, making small circular strokes, migrating between nipples and knees. Sgt. Sarah Rogers, the OR tech—young, slender, with expressive eyes—placed sterile instruments onto her Mayo stand. O’Leary intermittently squeezed the ventilator bag, pushing in 100 percent oxygen; each time his hand relaxed, the bag filled with the sound of an inflating balloon. Suction cannulas hissed. The Pulse Oximeter sensor from the patient’s finger, beeped his rapid heart rate.

Is he asleep? Williamson asked.

Narcotized—O’Leary injected a drug into the IV port—enough to ease his pain. Don’t want to drop his pressure any more than I have to.

Weber reached for the sterile towel that Sarah held out; her eyes electric with excitement.

Parker, when you’re finished there, get something for Paul to stand on.

Tossing the towel aside, Weber donned gown and gloves, and bellied up to the patient’s right. After Williamson gowned and gloved, he stepped up on the six-inch riser Parker placed on the patient’s left. Weber poked Betadine-soaked gauze sponges into the entrance wound. The surgeons draped off the abdomen with sterile towels followed by an adherent, clear plastic sheet stretching from mid-chest to mid-thighs, and laid down a green paper drape with a rectangular hole that framed the abdomen. O’Leary walled himself off from the operative site by clipping the head-end of the drape high between two IV poles.

Give me the word, Weber said.

In a minute—I’m pumping gas, O’Leary said, turning dials and squeezing the black bag on the anesthesia machine. He paused long enough to inject two drugs into IV ports.

Williamson cleared his throat. Think we’ll get more sniper victims?

Probably not—Weber folded hands across his abdomen—The army’s chasing the guy. He’ll keep his head down.

You said ‘the guy.’ You think there’s just one?

It depends. Our snipers work in two-man teams. But—he shrugged—who knows? The guy’s a paramilitary. Probably hit-and-run, or the perimeter guards would’ve been all over him.

I hope they let us know.

Now listen. Weber held Paul’s gaze across the table. I want you to compress his aorta against the vertebra, below the diaphragm, with sponge sticks—he motioned toward the Mayo stand—as if we’re doing a ruptured aneurysm. I’ll set ’em up. You hold ’em.

Weber extended his right hand toward Sarah. Knife.

She slapped the cold steel handle into his palm. He held the scalpel loosely and waited.

Cut, said O’Leary.

With one smooth stroke, Weber incised the distended abdomen from sternum to pelvis, detouring around the umbilicus. He deepened the incision between the rectus muscles and opened the peritoneum. Dark blood and clots spilled over the sides splashing onto their scrub gowns. An outhouse stench filled the room.

Whew. Weber threw back his head. Bullet blew a hole in ‘big stinky.’

With the fingers of his right hand, he dissected deep into the upper belly. After clearing tissue from the rapidly pounding aorta, he retracted the viscera downward with his left hand and held his right hand toward the scrub tech. Two sponge sticks, wet.

Sarah slapped the handles into his palm. Weber guided the clamps, each holding two tightly folded gauze sponges in its jaws, onto the aorta and pushed them toward the floor. With a nod, he motioned to Williamson to maintain compression.

Within seconds, O’Leary said, Pressure’s inching up.

Just like that, Weber said,