“Dear God — did the bullet go through me and hit the President?” he thought in horror.
“How’s he doing?” shouted the driver. The Beast took a hard turn and then accelerated again.
“I don’t know. He’s covered in blood, but I’m hit as well. I can’t tell if he’s covered in my blood or if the bullet went through me and hit him,” he yelled back. Then he started coughing. His coughing increased in intensity until he felt lightheaded and suddenly passed out on top of the President.
“Terry, stay with me!” yelled the driver. Hearing no reply, the driver just pressed his foot harder on the gas pedal, racing down the street, his speedometer blowing past 100mph as the engine just roared and other vehicles did their best to keep up with him.
A couple of cars were on the same road as the hospital, most of them steered themselves off to the shoulder out of the way of the armored limousine that was racing down the road. One unlucky driver thought they could dart across the road, but completely underestimated the speed at which the Beast was traveling. The tail end of the car was hit and sent into a hard tailspin as they barreled on through toward the hospital.
Approaching the emergency entrance to the hospital, the driver of the Beast saw the police had already cleared away any traffic that had previously been there. A small cluster of doctors, nurses and Secret Service agents were also standing under the overhang waiting for him to arrive. Nearby were close to two dozen military soldiers in full combat gear. As they pulled up, two more military helicopters landed, unloading more soldiers.
Racing up the road leading to the emergency room, the agent hit the brakes, causing the wheels to squeal as the Beast lurched forward from the sudden change in velocity. As soon as the vehicle came to a halt, the rear passenger door with the presidential seal was opened, and a pair of hands reached in and grabbed the now-unconscious agent lying on top of the President. They placed him on a gurney and got him out of the way, so they could get to Gates.
Seconds later, they had pulled the President from the back of the Beast and placed his body on the gurney. The cluster of nurses and doctors rushed the leader of the free world into the ER and headed straight to an operating room.
“He’s covered in blood!” yelled one of the doctors. “Somebody, get me a set of vitals!”
Nurses and paramedics had already cut the President’s shirt open. Once person was wiping up blood as they looked for the source of the bleeding. Another was starting an IV line, a third was attaching a BP cuff. It was like a beehive, chaotic but very well-orchestrated.
“His BP is low, 82/50,” said one of the nurses.
“His pulse is weak and thready,” said another. After a slight pause, she announced, “I just lost his pulse!”
Then they entered the elevator that would take them to the operating floor.
As soon as the door closed, Tom McMillan grabbed his smartphone and hit the speed dial to the SecDef.
“This is Castle,” replied the gruff voice on the first ring.
“Jim, it’s Tom. The President’s been hit. I have no idea how bad or what his condition is. Travis was also hit. The last word I heard from the Secret Service is he’s dead. I’m not sure what more to really tell you, but I needed to make sure you knew what happened,” he told his friend, who was silent on the other end, probably digesting what he had just been told.
“Tom, what the heck is going on?” Jim Castle finally asked. “Call me back as soon as you hear anything more about the President. You should probably call the Vice President,” he replied, and then the call was ended.
Looking through his contacts, Tom found the Vice President’s number and hit dial. It rang twice before he picked up. “How bad is the President, Tom?”
“I don’t know yet. All I know is he was covered in blood, and one of the doctors said they couldn’t feel a pulse and then the elevator doors closed. I honestly don’t know, but I’m going to stay here until I do,” he replied.
“OK, keep me informed. The Secret Service has just taken me down to the bunker. The Chief Justice is also on his way. They are going to invoke the 25th Amendment for the time being, until we know what the President’s status is,” he replied, his voice a bit shaken and unsure.
“You’ll do fine, Sir,” Tom McMillan said reassuringly. “We have a good team in place, and we’ll get through this. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”
They quickly concluded their call. Both men had a lot of things to take care of.
“Doc, he’s got jugular venous distension,” said one of the nurses as they continued wheeling toward the OR.
“Crap,” said the surgeon. “He’s probably got pericardial tamponade.” He turned to one of the other nurses. “Did you get the pulse back?”
“I can’t feel it any more, Sir. We’ll find out more once the EKG is completely hooked up,” she answered. Most of the stickers and leads had already been placed — only a couple more to go.
Everyone continued with their duties as they moved along, until the green line started to dance across the screen. A string of expletives filled the room. “He’s got low QRS voltage,” the surgeon finally said. “He’s definitely in tamponade. We’ve got to get him open and drain the bleeding that’s pushing on his heart, or we’re going to lose him.”
The President’s breathing was becoming more shallow and rapid. His face started to look pale.
The surgeon consulted with the anesthesiologist. Meds were pushed and just like that the President was intubated. A nurse kept a steady rhythm going on the Ambu bag, one breath every six seconds.
Just as the surgeon was about to make a cut so he could get a scope in there and see what was going on, he noticed blood oozing out around the President’s IV site. He stopped.
“No, please no,” he thought.
Blood started to spill out of every orifice of the Commander-in-Chief’s body, including his eyes and ears. He didn’t need a blood test to tell him what was happening.
“Get me some platelets, frozen plasma, and Factor 7 STAT!” he yelled. “He’s going into DIC.” Two people ran out of the room. The President’s clotting factors had been disrupted by the violent trauma of the gunshot wound, and if didn’t get these treatments quickly, he would bleed out.
A few painful moments went by as they waited for the bags to arrive. They ran normal saline wide open, trying to preserve what little blood pressure he had left. Finally, the two heroes of the moment returned, and they began to run the vitally needed infusions.
It was too late. The President’s skin was already turning yellow from damage to his liver.
“He’s flatlining!” yelled one of the nurses.
“Give compressions and let’s see if we can get a rhythm,” said the surgeon.
After five cycles of chest compressions, there was no change. His heart had stopped. The surgeon couldn’t open him up because he would bleed out while in DIC, and without a functioning heart, the platelets and clotting factors wouldn’t circulate throughout the body. There was nothing they could do.
“He’s gone,” announced the surgeon.
They all took a step back. One man saluted the President, and then the others followed suit. President Patrick Gates was dead.
From the Authors
Fear not — the battle is not over. We are already working on the next book in the series, Battlefield Russia, which is available for pre-order (simply click the link in the title). We are on track to release it in September of 2018. So the adventure is not finished, just to be continued.