Lockout

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

St. Paul’s Hospital, Denver, Colorado (10:50 p.m. MST / 0450 Zulu)

Pulling the chief attending trauma surgeon away from an ER full of patients had required a level of insistence and, basically, rudeness that Steve Reagan hated in others. But there had been no choice, and now a miffed doctor was standing before him in a small alcove demanding to know what the problem was, his voice low and not unkind, but decidedly irritated.

“I need you to give my wife something to wake her up enough to answer some critical questions.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“No, doctor, I am far from joking.”

“You beat up my nurses to get me over here because you want to question your wife? Man, you’re lucky she’s alive! She’s got to rest, for Chrissake!”

“Doctor, I can’t explain too much to you, but this is a matter of national security.”

“Yeah, right!” He started to turn away, and Steve grabbed the sleeve of his scrubs. The physician whirled on him.

“Get your hands off of me!”

“Doctor, is it dangerous to wake her up?”

“That’s not the point. I won’t allow it.”

“Doctor, at this moment, there is a commercial airliner about to run out of fuel because the pilots cannot regain control of their aircraft. I am not at liberty to tell you how I know this, but I can tell you that Gail… my, my wife in there… has in her head the… the numbers for want of a better word… that will give control back. Almost 300 people will die if we don’t wake her up enough to get that sequence.”

“Who the hell are you?” the doctor demanded.

“I’m Steve Reagan, and I… work for the air force.”

“Yeah? Well, Mr. Reagan, so happens I am a flight surgeon and a major in the Air Force Reserve, and we don’t have people like you running around without IDs. So cough it up or get out of my face.”

“I’ll do better than that. Please wait a second.” Steve pulled his phone to eye level and punched redial on the last number connected.

“General? Steve Reagan. I have a physician here who refuses to wake Gail up and who doesn’t believe me. He’s also an air force doctor, a major. Dr. Mark Wellsley. Yes, sir, I thought you’d say that.”

Steve held out the phone. “Lieutenant General Paul Wriggle is on the other end. He’s speaking from the White House.”

Uncertainty now crossed the face of the doctor as he reluctantly took the phone, listening and responding in guarded fashion before asking the key question Steve knew had to come.

“How the hell do I know you are who you say you are?” The doctor looked back at Reagan, eyes flaring with distaste as he agreed to hang up and find the main number of the White House switchboard on his own and call in.

He handed the phone back to Steve as if it were contaminated and moved to a desk phone at the nurses’ station, punching up information and then dialing the number, obviously astounded when he was recognized and connected immediately.

“Okay, yes, I’m satisfied. What the hell is going on general?”

A few more words were spoken before the doctor replaced the receiver and turned to Steve.

“Okay. We can do this safely, but you’ll only have a few minutes, because I’m not going to let you wear her out.”