Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

On August 26 th , Abbey Gate was closed when John came on duty. Their CO gave them all a version of a straight story that morning at changeover.

“Credible threat,” their CO said. This was U.S. intelligence lingo for some guy or some guys—probably members of ISIS-K—being willing to strap on and then go out in a blaze of glory and a lot of extraneous body parts while taking as many others with them as they possibly could. “The threat was deemed likely early this morning, but the assessment’s been downgraded to maybe. ”

Meaning one of two things: maybe yes, maybe no.

All the medical stations around the airport shut down. Personnel twiddled their thumbs while rumors swirled: that Abbey Gate wouldn’t be reopened; that the Brits were now safe and sound; that, no, the Brits still weren’t ready; that a suicide bomber had been spotted but then, no, he hadn’t. Like that, on and on.

After a half hour of nothing to do, he was methodically repacking his medical go-bag after having methodically unpacked it when Roni wandered up. “Hey.”

“Mmmm.” He’d caught a glimpse of Roni, who’d just squeaked in for early report and changeover at the last second, though he’d willed himself not to look around. Because screw you, honey. Which was something he thought Driver was probably doing with energy and in earnest. So, instead of looking up, he gave a roll of cling gauze far more attention that it deserved and said, “Something on your mind?”

If he’d been hoping for an apology, he didn’t get one. “I was wondering if you saw my note.”

That note. She’d scrawled, Today. 1730. He’d found the note on his bed after storming into the bathroom and snarling that she’d better be gone when he got out. He debated between playing dumb or telling her to go screw herself. He settled for what he hoped was studied objectivity. “To paraphrase Julius Caesar, I saw it, I read it, I flushed it.”

When he didn’t continue, she said, “Are you coming?”

“To meet up with Driver and his merry men? Wait, does that make you Maid Marian?”

She ignored the jibe. “Are you coming?”

“If I do, do I get to feel his muscles? ”

He was pleased at the sudden flush staining the underside of her jaw. “I’m being serious.”

“So was I.”

“ Please , John.” Her clenched fists hung at her sides, though he saw the knuckles whiten. “I’m asking you nicely.”

“At the risk of sounding faintly not-so-very nice, why in hell would I do that?”

“Because it’s important. The meeting’s important.”

“To whom? To you? To Driver?” So much for studied objectivity. “Why would I even care?”

“Because you’re not an asshole,” she said then added, “even if you sometimes act like one. Like now.”

“I see.” He gave a slow, pensive nod. “Is this where I get to say that it takes one to know one?”

“John.” Her voice trembled, though whether from fury or frustration he couldn’t tell. “No matter what you think, I have not been doing what you think.”

“Oh?” His tone was a lash, and he was pleased when she flinched. “And what is it I think, Roni? You think I’m angry because, as my Yiddisher grandmother might have said, you’re shtupping Driver?”

You’re not being fair. It was the Jiminy Cricket part of his brain weighing in. You aren’t in an exclusive relationship. You are Harry and Sally, only she’s Harry, who’s suddenly realized that sleeping with you has probably ruined your friendship.

Oh, what a bunch of bull. She had used him. Now she wanted something in return, a sort of payment for services rendered. Well, she could sit on it and spin.

“John.” Her cheeks had pinked. “Keep your voice down, okay? I know you’re angry at me. But you’re angry for the wrong reasons… No .” She held up a hand as he opened his mouth. “Let me finish, okay? I just want to say this.”

Against his better judgment, he said, “Which is?”

“I am not the one with secrets, John.”

He gave that same angry laugh. “Oh, no?”

“No,” she said, her voice calm, her posture telegraphing a certain authority. “I know others’ secrets, and I keep them. I’m a shrink; that’s what I do. That’s why I never pressed you after that night at Emery’s. Yes, I asked you to come shooting again. Yes, I hoped you’d trust me enough to talk about what’s eating you, what you’re hiding. Because whatever’s in you…it’s like sand in an oyster. You’re shut up tight, holding onto what gnaws at your guts because you don’t trust that, maybe…just maybe, what has bothered you all these years—what you’ve hidden away—hasn’t smoothed over. That pearl of your past might not be beautiful, but maybe it’s not as ugly as you think.”

He waited a beat and then another—and then he laughed. The sound was brutal, harsh, corrosive: a bark that ripped his throat. He laughed loudly enough to turn a couple of heads, but he was beyond caring.

“Seriously,” he said, shaking his head, “that shit really works with your patients? Because here’s the problem with that analogy, Roni. To get that lovely little pearl? The one you’re so desperate to wear around your neck?” He drilled her with a look. “You gotta kill the effing oyster.”

Her face smoothed; the color fled from her features leaving her skin the color of bone china. When she stood, she did so slowly. For a second, he thought she might say something, but she didn’t. She only turned and walked away and never once looked back.

There. He shoved in a packet of quick-clotting gauze with far more force than necessary. Take your psychobabble, honey, stick it where the sun don’t shine, and spin on it.

He should’ve felt better. He’d shown her . Trying to manipulate him… His skin fizzed with rage. That would teach her.

And if wishes were fishes…

Finally, at 1000, Abby Gate reopened. Meaning the usual chaos became only more chaotic because now the air was seasoned with panic, a sense of an invisible clock counting down.

Right around 1250, word again came down from intelligence that there was going to be an attack that day, but no one knew what time and yeah, yeah, there had been false alarms before, but no, really, this was legit. Islamic State was coming; they were getting a video ready and everything .

John and the other soldiers ignored the warning and kept working.

Then, at 1400, intel said a bomb was going to go off in ten minutes. The Marines at the Gate sought cover. Work elsewhere ceased. Their CO ordered everyone to hunker down, but John kept seeing patients. What the hell else was he going to do? Wasn’t as if the patients in the tent were going to suddenly go poof and vanish.

1410 came. 1410 passed. A minute or so later, more staff started to take up their stations. At 1430, things got going again.

Sometime around 1500, word got around that the last planes would leave the next day. This started a general panic. Not a stampede, really, but that was only because there was almost no room for anyone funneled into the one approach road to Abbey Gate to do much more than shift his weight from one foot to the other. Think of a solid, high-walled concrete horse corral topped with razor wire filled with struggling, panicked people instead of struggling, panicky horses, and you’ve got the idea.

When people panic, they’re no different from anyone or anything else struggling to get out of a confined space. They push forward or back or from side to side; they surge en masse the way an ocean wave foams and curls and crashes to shore before dragging itself back to begin the process again.

And people fall. They are trampled. Some suffocate. Others are crushed by the sheer weight and volume of bodies pressed so closely together, there’s no room to breathe. Often, the victims are small children. Even babies clasped tight to a parent’s chest aren’t safe because, well, crush a parent hard enough and then...

John must’ve seen more than a dozen trampled toddlers and dead babies by 1700.

August 26th was shaping up to be a very bad day.