Divided States, page 22
“I won’t ask whose military you’re with or what your mission is, but I do take it you’re traveling internationally, correct?”
Jeremiah nods. The doctor mirrors him.
“I am confident he will survive,” Patel says. “But you may want to alert Mr. Ramirez’s family. International travel can be complicated, and if they want to ensure being here in the event something goes wrong, starting the process now would be prudent.”
That’s not something Jeremiah expected a doctor to think about, but Patel’s right. “Do you know where his personal effects are?”
“I believe the nurses put them in the room. There are drawers where we store patient clothes and other items. Why?”
“He had”—Jeremiah searches for a phrase other than death notice—“emergency contacts written on a piece of paper that should’ve been in one of his pockets.”
“Excellent news. Mr. Ramirez is in Room 5, through the doors and on the left.”
When he gets there, Jeremiah is pleased to find Zeus resting peacefully. He knows the man’s not sleeping, but he’s also not feeling any pain. And as the monitor reminds Jeremiah with each beep, Zeus is still alive. The world may be about to end, but at least he’ll get to spend Armageddon with his family.
A Bible’s all he finds in the top drawer of the small dresser on the far-right wall, but the middle section holds Zeus’s clothing, sans flack jacket. The olive undershirt has a chest pocket with nothing inside. Same for his pants. Stowed in the bottom drawer are the tactical gear and objects, including house keys and tri-fold wallet.
The wallet contains about fifty dollars cash but no licenses or other identifying cards, which everyone had left behind as part of this terribly conceived op. He’s about to fold up the worn leather when he sees a piece of white paper sticking out from one of the empty credit-card slots.
He unfolds the paper to find two sets of names and numbers: Sarah Grace and Lexi.
Jeremiah reaches for the bedside phone, then realizes he doesn’t know how to dial out, let alone if there are any extra steps to call internationally. He walks out into the hall and orients himself toward the nurse’s station, where Patel and Nurse Hawaii are discussing a patient chart.
Patel looks up as Jeremiah approaches. “Did you find what we discussed?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure how to get an outside line and all that.”
“Silly me, of course.” Dr. Patel points down a corridor to the left. “Follow me. It’ll be easier on my office phone.”
As they walk, Jeremiah notes the rooms. There were four down the hall that led to Zeus—numbers 3 through 6—and he just passed patient beds 1 and 2. They brush by an open door to a small conference room to the left, opposite one marked Cleaning, then two office doors at the end.
They walk through the one with a slide-in nameplate stamped with Dr. R. Patel. His office is cramped and the desk is overflowing with scattered files, except where medical texts tower over a laptop and a landline.
“Which countries will you be calling?” Dr. Patel asks.
“His wife lives in The Republic.” The doctor looks confused, so Jeremiah clarifies. “Texas, I mean. I guess we’re kind of full of ourselves over there.”
Dr. Patel grins and nods. “You have much to be proud of.”
“Maybe. At any rate, then I’ll need to call his sister in the United States.”
Jeremiah had known calling Lexi might be a problem. Rural Bloc nations didn’t ordinarily allow for those calls free of government oversight.
“I see,” the doctor says. “Fortunately, hospitals have an exemption from the Oklahoma laws governing communications with the United States, LSA, and Free States. All you need to do is dial nine, one, the country code, the area code, and the number. My mobile phone has the same capability, but reception in this weather may not be ideal.”
Jeremiah grins. “Is that all?”
As they share a laugh, Jeremiah is convinced the good doctor isn’t from India. The nature of SEAL Teams and DEVGRU meant never staying in one country for more than a few months, but he’d heard enough English-to-Farsi translators to differentiate that from native Hindi speakers living in the West, even ones as fluent as Dr. Patel. That got his brain noticing physical features like skin tone and facial construction. Not that any of it matters, but he’s curious why a doctor would feel the need to hide his identity and take a job in the middle of nowhere. And if Jeremiah’s going to make a dangerous phone call—which he wants to do, for Zeus and for his sister—he needs to know he can trust the man telling him it’s fine.
“Well I’m really glad that’s the case, Dr. Patel. You see, my friend’s estranged from his sister. Can’t really go see her or talk to her. It’s pretty tough on him.”
That may or may not be true of Zeus, but Jeremiah bets it’s true of the doctor.
“I understand Mr. Ramirez’s situation completely. That’s why I suggested you call now, while it’s safe.”
“About that,” Jeremiah says, shifting from the building rapport phase straight to interrogation. “You wouldn’t be trying to convince me to tie my own noose, would you?” Dr. Patel clearly doesn’t get the metaphor, which means he hasn’t lived in the heartland long. “What I mean is, have you alerted the Oklahoma government that I’m here? And are you talking me into a suspicious phone call to incriminate myself, with the intention of getting me and my team detained?”
The doctor’s eyes go wild with panic. “Sir, I would never do that. As I said, I understand being estranged from family and having to be careful about contacting them.”
Now they’re getting to it. “Is that because you are lying about your identity, Dr. Patel?”
Jeremiah knows he sounds like a bigot, like Dom pretends not to be. But that’s his intent. If Jeremiah’s right and this guy’s Iranian and moved here not long ago, there’s at least a fifty-fifty chance he’s part of the coup. And if that’s true, he’ll more than likely get angry and cagey.
The doctor hangs his head. “Yes,” he says, shoulders slumped. “My name is Doctor Sasan Hosseini, not Doctor Rahul Patel.”
“So, you’re not Indian then.”
“I never said I was.”
He has a point. The doctor let Jeremiah—and everyone else here—assume his nationality based on the fake surname.
“You’re Iranian,” Jeremiah states rather than asks.
“Yes. I lied to get this job.”
The doctor’s either guilty or deserves an Oscar. But the best terrorists usually do. “And that’s my problem,” Jeremiah says. “Why lie your way to get what I’m sure is a low-paying gig for a doctor?”
He sighs. “You’re going to think it’s silly, mister”—he looks up, embarrassed—“I’m so sorry. I never got your name, sir.”
“Call me Jay for now.”
“Jay,” he says, as though committing it to memory. “Like I said, you’re going to think I’m silly. I had a practice in Los Angeles but was forced to flee like most people there. When my wife and I talked about where we should go, she wanted somewhere wholesome where we could raise a family one day. And I—and this is the silly part, Jay—I suggested Oklahoma because I saw the musical at an LA theater and loved it. When I researched further, I noted how impoverished the state was and knew I could help people here.”
Jeremiah suppresses a smile. Yes, it’s silly. But if Dr. Hosseini is being truthful, it’s also charming as hell.
“But no hospitals were granting me privileges. Not as a man from the Islamic Republic of Iran with a last name so closely resembling Saddam Hussein.”
That seems far-fetched, but Jeremiah’s willing to believe the man thinks that’s why no hospitals wanted him to work there.
“So why not try other places? Forging documents is pretty extreme to get into a place like this.”
“The heart wants what it wants, Jay. And who’s to say any place other than a major city would’ve been more tolerant. Plus, the documents were so very easy to get with the money at my disposal, and the rural hospitals started calling almost instantly.”
Jeremiah’s far from convinced, but he tells Hosseini to continue.
“I am extremely fortunate I took such drastic measures. After the secessions, the Oklahoma government outlawed travel into the country by those of the Islamic faith, and many of the Muslims here were forced to leave.”
Jeremiah knows about the travel ban. The Republic did the same after seceding. Hell, the USA had one when he was a younger man. But forcing Muslims to relocate? “I don’t believe for one minute that the OBI or any other government entity forced anyone to leave based on their religion.”
“My apologies, Jay, you misunderstand. The government didn’t force them to move. Our neighbors did.”
That, Jeremiah believes.
“But as I said,” Dr. Hosseini says, “I was fortunate. My wife and I had been keeping my faith a secret. And it helped that she is white and protestant. When some of our less-tolerant neighbors began asking questions about whether I worship Jesus or Mohammed, I simply began attending her Baptist church.”
“Sounds like you have it made here,” Jeremiah says, his comment not entirely insincere. “So why all the angst about not being able to contact family?”
“My sister, Yasmin,” he says. “Jazzy, as she’s known on this side of the world. We both grew up in Tehran dreaming of coming to America. I studied medicine in Shiraz and she studied clothing design. She had to either stay on the West Coast or move to New York to stay working as a fashionista and social media influencer. Jazzy chose New York and therefore never had to hide her nationality or faith. I haven’t seen her since moving here, not even on United States social media sites since those are blocked in the republics. But I do get to call her during downtime here at the hospital.”
Dr. Hosseini moves around his cluttered desk and presses a few buttons. “See, here are the call logs. Notice the country code for two of the last five. All to the United States.”
Not only that, but the calls are spread out over several days. Jeremiah tries to come up with a way he could’ve faked that, but can’t. Not in the short time he’s been at the hospital. Not even if Dr. Hosseini somehow had the help of either republic’s government. And why would they help a suspected terrorist?
No, Hosseini can call out to the USA without being monitored. The rest is probably true, too.
Jeremiah holds out his hand. “My name’s Jeremiah Reynolds. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Hosseini.”
The doctor’s face lights up like a pitmaster receiving his blue ribbon. “An honor, Mr. Reynolds. And may I thank you for your service.”
“I never said I served.”
Dr. Hosseini smiles, wryly, like they’re old buddies now. “Surely you’re joking.”
Jeremiah winks and takes out the piece of paper with the phone numbers.
He’s halfway through Sarah Grace’s when the screaming starts.
46
LORI
Outside of Farefax Community Hospital, Northeast Province
Republic of Oklahoma
A few people remain in the green Expedition in front of her. Its rear window is tinted—just like the identical SUV she’s sitting in—but there is movement inside. Two paramilitaries exited the lead vehicle a few moments ago, joining the two from hers.
The yellow-toothed UNIC who led their extraction remains in the passenger seat in front of Fowler, MacLaughlin, and Lori, so she hopes the lead vehicle also has one guarding Boudreaux, Moore, Road Runner and Soddie.
“Building’s secure,” says a voice from the guard’s radio. “All clear to deliver the packages.”
As she tumbles out of the Expedition and slides on the icy parking lot, Lori sees Boudreaux and Moore do the same from theirs. She stays focused on the SUV, expecting to see the others. When they don’t appear, Lori eyes Boudreaux, who shakes his head.
Lori hopes neither had kids and that Moore can honor them with some tin if he survives.
If any of them survive.
The guy leading Moore and Boudreaux isn’t familiar. But as they fight the harsh wind and approach the entrance, Lori realizes something about the scene is familiar.
Clarke’s car. It’s damaged in the front and back and partially covered in fine snow, but there’s no doubt. Jeremiah and Hansen are somewhere inside, and there’s a chance Zeus wasn’t too hurt and can help, too.
Lori smiles. The dickless mothers must’ve missed them.
Two of the paramilitaries are standing in the middle of the lobby, rifles leveled at the hospital staff, including one white coat and Ichabod Crane in a Hawaiian shirt. They’re huddled in the far corner, sitting and sniffling, glancing at Lori and the rest as they walk past.
Things get eerie past the double doors. Twin heartbeats beat out of sync, echoing through the T-shaped hallways. They turn left at an empty nurse’s station and hear murmurs as they approach the end. The younger of their guards stops at the sturdiest-looking door and opens it for Yellowteeth and the rest.
Oh fuck. Two more guards are inside, holding a pair of hostages sitting at a conference table.
Jeremiah and Hansen.
Both have been stripped of their Kevlar and, she assumes, their weapons. Their faces are bruised to shit—though the sentries are sporting a shiner and split lip—which means they tried brute force and failed. Lori wants to know how the hell that could’ve happened, but that’ll have to wait until they either figure a way out or are out of hope.
With the addition of Yellowteeth and his partner, there are now four guards. The good guys are seven strong, though only five have military training, four of whom still train regularly.
Yellowteeth takes charge and tells the new crop of hostages to take a seat around the table. Fowler, MacLaughlin, and Moore comply. Lori and Boudreaux, however, don’t budge.
“Did you hear me, missy?” Yellowteeth says. “I said sit your ass down.”
One of his minions shoves a rifle muzzle into her side. “You heard Sergeant Taggart. Sit that fine ass of yours down.”
Lori’s pulling up instructions from her father. She’s fourteen and the Colonel is telling her to spin left and hit him with the back of her fist. Follow that with an immediate right cross, then sweep his legs.
She’s about to execute when Boudreaux levels the guy with a fist from above. He gets a rifle to the jaw for his trouble, but Lori appreciates the chivalry.
“You two’re trouble.” Taggart flashes his jack-o’-lantern grin. “That’s all right, we know what to do with trouble.”
Taggart nods to one of his minions. Lori tries to turn in time, but the butt of a rifle smashes her side, penetrating deep enough she feels it in her liver and doubles over onto the carpet. She rolls over and catches a glimpse of Boudreaux in the fetal position, two more of Taggart’s henchmen digging the toes of their boots into his sides. The soldiers at the table are standing, but the sergeant and another guard have their automatics trained in their direction.
“Get’em up,” Taggart says. When they get Lori and Boudreaux to their feet, arms held behind them, Taggart walks to her and leans his face so close she can smell his minty dip. “You and your boyfriend are going to the hole.”
Taggart takes a step back and punches her. His knuckles connect with her left eye socket and she collapses into the arms of the man restraining her. She’s not sure what the others do to Boudreaux, but before Lori can reorient herself, both are being led out of the conference room and across the hall. Someone opens a door and she’s tossed into a closet. It’s dark, but she hears Boudreaux behind her and something rolling near their feet. She feels a dowel dig into her back. Those elements combined with the smell of ammonia tells Lori she and Boudreaux have been stuffed into a cleaning supply closet.
“You okay?” he asks.
No. Lori needs a hit of something. She’d settle for a swig of cough syrup at this point to help ease the pain. “Yeah, I’m okay. Hurt, but okay. I don’t suppose you have any pills on you?”
“No, they searched us.”
“Same here. What happened to the other two?”
“The tall one, Road Runner, he landed on his leg wrong. Pretty sure he broke it. His buddy stayed behind and tried to get them to safety, but they were picked off pretty quick.”
Soddie should’ve been with Lori, but he followed Road Runner and Moore. A team never wants to split up. Perhaps there’s a bit of poetry in them going out together.
“How far did you and Moore get?”
“Not very. The overwatch on our side had already blown out the tires on our ride. We surrendered, and Moore asked to go back for his men. We both went, but they were already dead. The guy who led us in here said the sergeant and K still had plans for us.”
“We got a similar message. Any idea what they’re talking about?”
“Not a clue. You?”
Lori shakes her head, then realizes they’re in the dark. “No. But why don’t we ask.” She stands and feels her way to the door. The handle’s made of cheap aluminum, and the door doesn’t feel sturdy, either. “I bet you can kick this thing down in one shot.”
Boudreaux stands and shuffles toward her. His hands accidentally grope at her aching side.
“Sorry.” His hand moves from her to the door. “Look, you’re probably right. But what good’ll that do us? We’re unarmed and outmanned. The longer they think they’re in control, the more complacent they’ll get. They’ll put us back in the room, and eventually they’ll leave just one or two of them in charge while the rest go piss or smoke or whatever. Then we have a chance to overpower them, take the guns, and start fighting our way out.”
