Transplant

By Bailey James

In this gripping, fast-paced thriller, Dr. Robert “Doc” Lamb, trauma surgeon, former Army Special Forces Intelligence officer and CIA covert operative, swore he would never go back to his former life—not after his wife, Grace, was killed in a car bomb meant for him. But when Dr. Greg Johnson—the Broward County medical examiner, and an old friend—asks him to assist with the evaluation of a mysterious John Doe found floating in the Intracoastal Waterway, he begins to be pulled back into the world he had deliberately left behind.

Identifying the John Doe sets a complicated investigation into motion, one that seems, implausably, to lead from a topless dancer, to a local drug house stocked with black market anesthesia drugs which appear to have originated in the Middle East, and then to a medevac jet leaving the country on the night of the victim’s death. It also becomes clear the victim is one of many.

The trail eventually leads Lamb to a private island in the southern Bahamas, to a stem cell research institute on a remote Caribbean island, and eventually to a hospital in the tribal highlands of Yemen. When he finds the clues are leading him out of the country, Doc turns to Isaiah Jefferson, his old CIA partner, confidante and friend for help.

Doc had sworn he would never become involved with the CIA again, but as he probes deeper and deeper into the case—and as the dead man’s wife pleads with him to find out why her husband was killed, and who killed him—he feels his own overwhelming grief and guilt over his wife’s death driving him further and further into dangerous territory. In the process of gathering intelligence at the hospital in Yemen, he makes a grisly discovery -- one that explains everything.

When his cover story starts to unravel, he begins, in order to escape and report his discovery, to recall and utilize all the skills he had deliberately buried along with his former life. Finding himself drawn inexorably back into the battle between good and evil on the world’s stage, he is also forced to confront—once and for all—the demons living inside him.

Bailey James, an orthopedic surgeon and fifth-generation Floridian, was born in Tampa, into a family of natural storytellers. He currently lives with his wife on Amelia Island. His experiences in medicine over more than thirty years have provided him with a deep catalogue of characters and situations he mines for his writing. While continuing to practice orthopedics, he spends most of his time writing the type of thrillers he's always enjoyed reading.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bailey James
• Release date: Sep 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781630034238

Bailey James

Bailey James, a fifth- generation Floridian, was born in Tampa, Florida, into a family of natural storytellers. He has lived throughout the state his entire life, from the northeast coast to Islamorada in the Florida Keys.After graduating from Wake Forest University, he completed medical school and residency at the University of Florida, before beginning a private practice in orthopedic surgery. His experiences in medicine over more than thirty years have provided him with a deep catalogue of characters and situations he mines for his writing.He lives with his wife on Amelia Island. While continuing to practice orthopedic surgery, he spends most of his time writing the type of action and techno thrillers he's always enjoyed reading.

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Acknowledgements

Thank you to my dear friends and family who read chapters, and in some cases, entire manuscript drafts, as Transplant progressed through its many revisions. Thank you especially to Keith and Sharon, my critical readers, for your input, both technical and literary.

Thank you to Lacy J, my editor, whose contributions, changes and suggestions make the book the professional work it deserves to be. Lacy, you make me laugh at myself and that's a good thing. And thanks to my whole creative team at CreateSpace for putting it all together. You guys are the best.

A special thanks to Michael P. for your inspiration, encouragement, and patience whenever I needed it. I hope Transplant makes you proud.

Finally, thank you to my wife, Cheryl, for your unwavering patience as I write and your numerous suggestions and critiques, without which the manuscript would still be unfinished.

Bailey James

Amelia Island

July 30, 2013

Prologue

The morning was so still and so quiet that the sound of the autumn leaves fluttering down from the trees and striking the ground outside the window was clearly audible. This tiny, one bedroom cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains was his refuge. It was the place he went last before he departed for an assignment and the place he went first when he returned from one. It was where, emotionally, he left the world he normally lived in, and when he came back, where he re-entered it.

He always came here alone. It was his cloister. His place of silent contemplation. His confessional. Where he atoned for the life he had chosen, or more accurately, the life that had somehow chosen him. He had never brought anyone to it, or even let anyone see pictures of it for that matter, repairing and remodeling it alone, by himself, after buying it. Before this weekend, only one other person who knew him also knew the cabin existed.

He had been miserably inept at relationships, habitually pushing women away when they became too close. He brandished his ability to bury his emotions like a shield, holding it up when a woman became uncomfortable for him, keeping it in front of him, between them, until she would finally become weary of the struggle and leave, solving the problem of ending the relationship, absolving him of the guilt of failure.

But this one had been different, refusing to leave, somehow understanding it was all a ruse, and knowing if she persisted long enough, he would fatigue, and the shield would fall clattering to the ground. It was impossible, she thought, that he could care for his patients so tenderly, and yet be so cold to those closest to him. It seemed to her to be an incompatible paradox. One she would solve.

And she had. Her impetuous personality, her spontaneity, and her infectious laugh had eroded his resolve, like a stream eroding a boulder, until he finally surrendered to her.

It had been more than a year since he'd been given an assignment, long before she had broken down his defenses and won his heart, but orders taking him overseas had finally come.

And so, he told her he had to leave for a while, and didn't know when he would be back. She understood it was a part of the man she loved and acquiesced with only one condition. He had to marry her before he left and wear a ring announcing, to every other woman he encountered, that he was taken.

Much to his own surprise he had said, yes, he would marry her.

They had exchanged vows, standing before The Honorable Gary H. Royster, Justice of the Peace, in the parlor of a bed and breakfast in Charlottesville, on the way to a long weekend at what he promised her was a special place.

They were at the cabin now, at the boys' club, no girls allowed, together. They had walked hand in hand through the woods. They had sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, snuggling with a blanket around their shoulders. And they had made love in the creaky old bed under a mountain of blankets, their noses cold in the frosty fall air.

The taste of her mouth, the smell and feel of her hair, and her body, especially the smell of her body after they made love, had imprinted itself in his mind, and in his heart. Why had he waited so long for this? Why had he denied himself this release, this union with another being? Someone whose nature, seeming so opposite to his own, still somehow completed him. It didn't matter, it was happening, and for once, he told himself, he didn't need to analyze it over and over until it was rational. Because, it wasn't rational.

As the pale light of the sunrise began to fill the room, he rolled over to hold her, but she was gone. Only the smell of her stale perfume on the pillow remained. He opened his eyes, rubbing them, and looked up from the bed. Grace was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame of the opening, wearing only his flannel shirt, much too big for her, the tails brushing her knees.

Get up, sleepy head. We have to get on the road or you'll miss your flight.

The smell of bacon and coffee permeated the cabin. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. This must be a dream, he thought. It was too perfect.

They ate breakfast, and after they finished, he did the dishes while she showered. She finished packing their bags as he showered and shaved. He carried the luggage down to his old Land Rover Defender while she made sandwiches for the road.

Odd, he thought as he put their bags on the back seat, I don't remember the smell of motor oil inside it on the trip up.

He made a mental note to make an appointment with the technician to check the engine while he was gone. He'd taught Grace how to drive the standard transmission while they'd been at the cabin, so she could drive it to the shop for him. He thought to himself, this must be what it feels like to be in love, to trust another person completely.

Go back up and get the picnic basket and lock up. I'm going to drive us down the mountain. I'll get it cranked and warmed up while you're finishing.

He turned back from the Rover to see her standing behind him, her cheeks glowing pink from the cold, her hands on her hips, that funny, slightly crooked, smile lighting up her face. She stood on her tiptoes, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth, her green eyes wide open, and then swatted him on the butt.

Hurry it up, husband of mine. You've already made us late, slow poke.

As he started walking up the path to the cabin, the smell of motor oil lingered in his nostrils.

He realized he hadn't told her what he had planned to tell her. To tell her exactly what he did when he went away. It was the main reason he had brought her here. The time had simply slipped away with no moment seeming to be the right one. He would tell her on the way to the airport. She needed to know before he left. It would be a good time for them to talk about it.

Halfway to the cabin, the thought came to him whole, not with a beginning or an end, but instinctively whole. The smell of motor oil.

He swung on his heels to warn her, to yell to her to stop, but only a guttural, unintelligible growl came out of his mouth. The words refused to form themselves, to convey the danger, and so he began to run to her, to snatch the keys from her hands, but the ground held his feet tight, and he couldn't move.

There was no sound, only the blinding flash emanating from under the truck as the frame began to bend upward at its midpoint. As the wheels began lifting off the ground, into the air, he could no longer see Grace through the side window.

Instinctively, he turned away, shielding his face as he dove toward the ground, his feet now being ripped from the hold of the wet clay by the force of the blast. Searing, burning pain filled his mind and the silence was replaced by a deafening, shattering roar.

He jerked his head up and shook it violently, flinging the terror from his brain, willing himself awake. The bed sheets were soaked again, as they always were whenever he had the dream. Sweat was running down his nose. He stood up beside the bed and steadied himself before shuffling to the lavatory, washing his face with cold water and drying himself with a towel. He would shower later.

Sunlight was beginning to fill the room. It must be after six, he thought and went into the galley to make coffee. The nearly empty bottle of Scotch whiskey from the night before was still open on the counter. The ice in the glass had melted into a pale amber liquid. He poured it out into the sink and filled the glass halfway, thought about it, and filled it the rest of the way. He lifted it toward his lips but stopped midway, placing the glass back on the counter.

No, he thought to himself, not yet. You need to sweat the dream out. You need to make the thoughts go away, and this only makes them come back. Time to run. Time to make yourself so exhausted you can't have the thoughts anymore. So exhausted you can't remember that day.

He dropped his sweat-soaked boxers to the floor, pulled on the pair of shorts from the day before, tied on his running shoes, and lifted the rucksack filled with sixty pounds of sand bags up from the floor onto his chair. Sliding open the drawer of his desk, he took out the pistol and slipped it into the outer pocket of the pack before slinging it over his shoulders. Pausing as he turned toward the door, he looked at the framed picture on his desk, kissed the tips of the fingers of his right hand, and pressed them gently to the glass covering the photograph.

I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry, Grace. Please forgive me.

Diesel exhaust and the blue-gray smoke from two-stroke outboards permeated the heavy morning air as he stepped onto the aft deck. Workers were already busy in the boatyard and the commercial boats were idling out of the marina. He breathed the air deep into his lungs, exhaled, stepped up onto the seawall, and began to run.

Chapter 1

Fort Lauderdale

The gentleman's club was a classic Lauderdale topless bar. It was dark, smoky, and damp with the smell of stale booze wafting up from the carpeted floor. The crowd was a mix of businessmen in dress shirts with loosened ties, scattered among the local lounge lizards wearing bad Hawaiian shirts and loafers without socks. You could tell a local from a tourist by his tan—or his lack of one. Frank Peterson was not a local.

You know, we don't have places like this in Olathe, Frank said to the patron sitting next to him. We've got an adult megastore out on the interstate, but nothing like this. A 'gentleman's club.' Hah! Now that's a stretch, don't you think?

He nervously slipped another folded bill under the dancer's G-string as she gyrated in front of him, with one arm behind her, over her head, wrapped around the pole, her hips thrust forward.

My wife would kill me if she knew I was here, he continued, but I had to do this at least once, and I don't get out of town all that often. When I found out this meeting was in Fort Lauderdale, I said to myself, 'Frank, you gotta go to one of those topless bars while you're there.' And here I am! We sure ain't in Kansas anymore, Toto!

Peterson was drinking Budweiser straight from the bottle with a stack of one-dollar bills in front of him, and glancing around uneasily. Even though he was more than a thousand miles from home, he was still afraid someone might recognize him. He was exactly the type she was looking for.

The dancer gyrated closer, squatting slowly as she arched backward, spreading her legs, her hand sliding down the pole. Her spiked, five-inch heels lifted off the bar as she bent fully back, her head almost touching the surface of the bar.

As Frank leaned forward to place another Washington under the strap of her G-string, she spun, swinging her foot and leg over his head. With her back turned toward him, she gradually stood up with both hands grasping the pole. She bent forward, sliding down the pole until she released her grip, placing her hands on the surface of the bar before grabbing the backs of her ankles. She was looking between her legs at Frank, her black hair puddling on the top of the bar.

What's your name, handsome?

Frank, he stammered. My name's Frank.

Well, Frank, she purred. There's no sense in eating only half of the apple. I finish dancing after this number, and I think a trip to the VIP room with me is exactly what you need. Are you game?

Frank gulped. Sure, but I'm running low on cash. How much is this gonna cost me? I don't want it on my credit card 'cause my wife does the bills, and she'll figure out where I've been.

Oh, you're such a sweetie. You really haven't ever been in a place like this before, have you? Don't worry, it shows up on the statement as Gulfstream Bar and Grill, but for you, only this once, it'll be on the house.

She stepped onto the barstool next to Frank then down to the floor, taking his hand in hers. Come with me.

The VIP room was more of a booth than a room. It had an elevated, padded platform hard against one side and smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and perfume. The pad was covered with rumpled, stained sheets. At the upper end was a pillow with a bar running from one side of the room to the other about two feet above the platform.

A trapeze and gymnastic rings were suspended from the ceiling, roughly two thirds of the way up. He couldn't decide whether it looked more like a medieval torture chamber or something out of the bad porn movies he watched from time to time in his hotel room.

The dancer reached back and closed the door. Lie on your back, Frank. Reach up with your hands over your head and hold the bar. Now keep your legs together. There's a closed circuit camera there in the corner, and if you take your hands down, it's an invitation to the bouncer to come in here and end the session.

He hesitated for a moment at the thought of a camera, but then did exactly as instructed. As soon as he was lying down, she stood over him and began to rotate her hips, swinging them in a circular motion to the piped-in music. Slowly, she moved lower and lower toward him, holding on to the rings hanging from the ceiling, brushing him gently at first, and then with more forceful contact.

Frank was breathing harder now, clearly no longer in Kansas.

Now, I want you to keep those hands on the bar, she said as she knelt over him. And don't move an inch.

She came to her knees over him and then leaned forward, coming to all fours, straddling him. She bent her head down, then tilted her face up, until she was looking at him directly, her hair forming a tunnel that bridged their faces.

My name's Sylvia, Frank. Are you good with numbers, Frank?

I think so, he stammered.

Good. I don't want to sleep alone tonight, and you seem like you might be a good kisser. Can you remember 162 NE Garfield Street, Frank? That's about four miles from here. Take a taxi. Tell the cabbie the address, and be there in thirty minutes. I'll be waiting for you. Don't disappoint me, Frank.

She eased her face down to his and kissed him. We'll finish this at my house. We don't want to waste anything here that you'll need later.

She pushed up to her knees straddling his hips, then reached up to the rings, rubbing him before pulling up to a standing position.

Frank! My-oh-my. You're ready to go. Hold that thought, honey. Better yet, I'll hold it for you later. Sylvia laughed wickedly and stepped onto the floor. She pulled a fake silk kimono around her body, tied the sash, and stepped out the door.

***

The house was in a typical, sixties vintage, non-descript Fort Lauderdale neighborhood. Crackerbox houses were lined up side by side, each with its own split driveway leading to a carport or what had once been a carport. By now most of them had been closed in to become garages or add-on rooms.

The front door had three small diamond-shaped windows slanting across it from the upper corner down almost to the handle. There was opaque film on the inside of the windows, but the middle one had a small hole rubbed in the film, forming a peephole.

Frank couldn't see in clearly, but he could see the shadow that crossed over the middle window as the deadbolt was pulled back.

Sylvia stood in the doorway, the light from inside silhouetting her. You made it, she said. I wasn't sure you'd come. I'm so very glad you did. Come on in. Can I get you a drink?

Do you have a beer?

Sure. There are some cold ones in the fridge. Let me get you one.

She motioned him to the couch and walked into the kitchen as he sat down. Taking the bottle from the refrigerator, she opened it, pouring a few ounces into a glass. She paused for a moment, thinking he must have a wife and probably children somewhere, but immediately drove the thought from her mind. She poured about a third of the beer into the glass, opened her hand over it, swirled it, and poured in the rest of the bottle.

I hope it's OK with you that I poured it into a glass. I get so tired of watching men swill beer from bottles at work, she purred, sitting down beside him.

She put a glass of wine to her lips as he drank the beer, taking his hand and placing it inside her robe against the inner side of her thigh.

Your touch is so soft, Frank. I don't want you to drink your beer too fast, but I want you so badly. I'm going to go brush my hair. Will you be in the bed when I get there?

Sure, sure. Where is it?

Sylvia stood up, taking his hand. Frank gulped the rest of the beer and put the glass down. He walked with her into the bedroom. The covers were turned down.

I'm going to get something. I'll be right back. You get comfortable and into the bed while I'm gone.

He fumbled as he unfastened his belt, remembering to put the condoms he'd bought in the men's room of the bar on the nightstand. He finished undressing and slipped under the sheets as she walked back into the bedroom.

She walked past the door, pulling it closed. Now, Frank, we have to set the stage for the evening. I like it a bit on the kinky side. How about you?

The room was beginning to spin. Frank tried hard to focus on her face.

I guess it depends. I've come this far. Like you said, 'No point in eating only half of the apple'.

Well, nothing too crazy, dear, but I do like my nitrous. It heightens the experience for me, if you understand what I mean.

Frank was having a hard time seeing clearly as she moved the small canister in her hand toward his face. Don't mind the mask, honey. I want you to breathe deeply now.

He was aware of the cool, musty smell as she pushed the button on the canister and the gas swooshed into the mask. Suddenly, he was aware of the room rapidly dimming. Odd, he thought, it didn't make him excited, only woozy. Then, it was completely dark.

Sylvia partially opened the door to the bedroom and leaned out. He's under. Hurry, help me get him intubated!

The door to the bedroom swung completely open, and two men pushed a portable gurney with collapsible wheels to the side of the bed. They lifted Frank onto it as Sylvia pulled a metal case from under the bed and opened it.

A laryngoscope appeared in her left hand as she simultaneously tilted Frank's head back and, with her right thumb on his chin and her fingers under his jaw, opened his mouth. With the blade of the 'scope inserted, she grabbed the endotracheal tube from the same case.

Center his larynx! she barked at the closest assistant. As he did, she slid the tube down Frank's throat and inflated the balloon to secure it in the airway.

Give me the stethoscope, she said, squeezing the Ambu bag now attached to the tube to ventilate him. She listened to one lung and then the other.

It's in place. Start the gas and get an IV going. Piggyback this bag to it when it's running.

A compact anesthetic setup was rolled into the room, and the hose from the bellows was connected to the endotracheal tube.

The assistant who had stabilized Frank's larynx began searching for a vein to use, while the other pulled out a bag of IV fluid. The catheter was inserted into the vein and taped down with the tubing from the fluid attached to it.

I want the IV running at 100 per hour and the piggyback at two and a half cc's a minute, then increased slowly. Hold the drip rate when the twitch stops. Keep him ventilated and make sure you're getting good chest expansions, Sylvia ordered before looking back down, smiling at her patient.

Sleep tight, Mr. Kansas. You're going far, far away.

With the fluid entering the vein, Frank's body visibly relaxed. Good, we're going to start packing up here. Keep titrating the piggyback, and keep him breathing.

Sylvia and one of the techs left the room as the second one began placing EKG leads on Frank's chest and shoulders. He continued increasing the speed of the drip while giving small electrical jolts to the right biceps via an electrode stuck to the skin over it.

When the muscle twitches faded to nothing, he spread a mylar blanket over Frank's body and tucked the sides under him. The sides of the gurney were pulled up and the tech began stowing supplies and drugs in the drawers of the anesthesia tower.

The tech kept watching the chest rise and fall under the blanket, listening to the beeps from the EKG monitor as he worked. Then he stopped, looking up at the monitor. Heart rate: 118. Heart rate: 120. Heart rate: 122.

Damn machine, he muttered and stuck a stethoscope under the blanket, looking at his watch. He counted for fifteen seconds. Thirty-two times four, he said out loud as he did the math in his head.

Shit, 128! he said as he realized the breathing rate was becoming rapid as well.

He leaned out the door, yelling, Get in here! We've got a problem! This guy's crashing!

Sylvia and the second tech ran into the room. She pulled the blanket out from the right side of the body and grabbed the wrist, palpating the radial pulse as she watched the heart rate rise above 130 on the monitor. He's hot. Get this blanket off him and get a thermal monitor on his forehead.

The left biceps muscle began to quiver, followed by both thighs. Then the whole body began moving as if worms were writhing beneath the skin.

Damn! He's fasiculating.

She took the thermal strip from the technician, pulled the backing off the strip, and slapped it on his forehead.

His temp is 102. Now it's 102.5. Shit. It's still climbing. Damn, 104

She slid the stethoscope over the front of his chest. Big time tachycardia, and it's getting irregular. She jerked up his hand up and looked at his fingernails.

Cyanosis. They're blue. We're gonna lose him. We're going to lose him. Damn it. Damn it. I told them this might happen. We've got to get out of here. Let's get him into the van. Grab his stuff, and take it with us. I don't want anything of his lying around here to tip someone off. Make sure you haven't left anything identifying us either.

She uncoupled the endotracheal tube from the bag and pulled the line out of the IV. Blood ran out of the hub of the IV briskly before slowing to a stop. The mottled blues and purples of cyanosis spread across his torso then ceased. Frank's stiff body continued to tighten, then slowly began to relax. The irregular trace on the EKG monitor became a straight green line, and the bleeps marking each separate pulse of the heart became a steady hum.

He's gone. Damn it to hell, he's dead. We've got to get out of here. Start loading all this equipment into the van.

What are we going to do with the body?

I don't know. I have to think. We can't leave it here, though, so keep it on the gurney and load it into the van.

The technician who had been monitoring Frank tossed the IV bags and tubing onto the gurney and piled the rest of the equipment into the drawers of the anesthesia setup. He rolled it out the door, heading for the garage.

The second technician wheeled the gurney with the body on it down the hall, following him. Sylvia opened the door to the garage and then opened the back cargo doors of the nondescript white Ford Econoline they had rented earlier. The magnetic signs they had placed on it announced it as a nonemergency medical transport vehicle.

A tech lifted the anesthesia tower into the van and rolled it to the front of the cargo bay, where he secured it with straps then scrambled out the back of the van as the gurney arrived. Both techs collapsed the wheels on the gurney, lifting it and the body on it up and onto the back bumper.

One tech climbed into the cargo bay, sliding the gurney in while the other moved toward the passenger door. Sylvia tossed Frank's clothes up against the back of the driver's seat of the van along with their bags then climbed into the seat herself.

Get that thing secured, yelled Sylvia to the tech in the back of the van as the garage door opened. Close the door after we're out then get in.

Sylvia turned in her seat to face the back of the van. Get the tube out of his throat and the IV out of his arm.

The assistant tugged on the tube. It won't come out!

Deflate the balloon, stupid. Take your scissors, and cut the inflation tube.

I don't have any scissors, he yelled back.

Just yank the damn thing out, dumb ass. He's dead! It won't hurt him.

The assistant cringed before yanking hard on the tube until it popped out.

Good, she said. Now let's get out of here and figure out how to deal with the body. We'll take his clothes with us on the jet.

***

Sylvia kept the van under the speed limit as her brain raced through her sketchy mental map of the streets of Fort Lauderdale. She was trying to remember how to get to the Intracoastal Waterway.

She had decided to dump the body in one of the canals lacing the city. They couldn't afford to be stopped with a fresh corpse in the van. She vaguely remembered a park across from the Galleria Mall and thought it might have access to the Intracoastal. As she crossed the bridge over the waterway, a traffic sign displaying a boat-launching ramp symbol pointed to the park on the opposite side of Sunrise Boulevard.

Sylvia briefly considered making a U-turn back to the park but checked herself, deciding it might attract attention. Instead, she drove around the back of the mall and crossed Sunrise into the park. Once she was there, she circled the parking lot with the boat ramp to their left, stopping in front of it.

Get the body out of here. Take it down the dock by the ramp and toss it—no, slide it—into the canal. Hurry. Leave the gurney in here. Take the body without it.

The two technicians unstrapped Frank's body and slid it off the gurney and out of the back of the van. One held the limp figure under the shoulders while the other held the legs as they stumbled down the dock to the catwalk between the mangroves and the Intracoastal. They laid the body diagonally across the planks, head toward the canal, and then slid it into the water. It sank swiftly and silently below the dark surface.

With the problem of the body in the van now resolved, Sylvia drove across town to the Everglades Executive Airport, pulling up to the security gate. She leaned out of the window and typed in the code, opening the gate, and drove to the hangar where the airplane was waiting for them.

She'd alerted the flight crew while they were driving, but had decided to not tell them of the death until they were airborne to avoid making them nervous. She wanted them acting normally as they filed the flight plan and readied the jet.

Pile some sheets and pillows and his clothing on the stretcher and cover it with the blanket. Get the Ambu bag back on the tube. Stick the tube in the bedding so it looks like it's in a patient, and hold the IV bag and tubing up like it's running. We need to make this look real.

The van pulled up to the Lear 31 Medevac jet. The large cargo door with the ramp was already open. Sylvia backed the van up to the jet with the back doors open with the technicians guiding her in. They detached the securing straps and rolled the gurney up the ramp into the fuselage of the jet, securing it to the floor of the cabin.

Get the IV bags up on the rail. Let's make this look real. Bring the anesthesia tower in here, and get the oxygen flowing.

The pilots had seen them pull into the hangar and were walking up to it as she was taking the magnetic signs off the van after checking the cargo bay to be sure nothing was left behind.

I'm going to park the van in the lot and be right back. I want to be ready to roll as soon as we close and lock the doors, got it?

The crew nodded in agreement. The pilot climbed into his seat