Paul McKellips - Jericho 3

The sounds of approaching sirens grew louder.

“Come on Camp, stay with us, stay with us… help is almost here,” Eileen pleaded with him. She got up and ran to the kitchen, opened the door and waved frantically to the EMTs as they ran into the lodge.

His heartbeat was weak and faint from the blood loss. The Lightner Farms parking lot was filling with emergency vehicles and flashing red lights. Two firemen rushed in with a stretcher as an EMT got the IV into Camp’s arm, a lead onto his heart and an EKG monitor by his head.

“Come on, baby,” Raines tried to urge him through hysteria and tears.

“We’re losing him,” the EMT yelled as he grabbed the portable defibrillator unit.

Camp’s eyes were shut.

“Clear!” Nothing happened.

“Clear!” Camp’s heart beat reappeared on the screen. They wheeled him out of the lodge and over to the waiting ambulance. Raines got in the back of the ambulance and held Camp’s hand.

“I am not letting go of you Seabury Campbell, Junior… DO NOT LET GO OF ME.”

The ambulance door closed and entered the Baltimore Pike with full sirens and lights as it raced to the emergency room at Gettysburg Hospital.

Islamabad, Pakistan

Dr. Ja’far drove up and parked outside the departures terminal at Islamabad International Airport as baggage handlers for Pakistan Airlines walked up to the car to help with luggage. Ja’far lowered the window.

“No luggage… just carry-on.”

Aara was sitting in the back seat. She wore a beautiful Persian gown with sequins and lace. Her hair was covered with an exquisitely decorated hijab.

“I told you there was no reason to panic. We’re here two hours before your flight.”

Aara breathed a sigh of relief as Dr. Ja’far got out and opened her door. He lowered his head in respect as Aara carried her small bag and walked into the terminal.

She was second in line at the PIA ticket counter.

“Name?”

“Aara Markazi.”

“Looks like we have you on the non-stop flight from Islamabad to London’s Heathrow.”

Aara smiled and nodded.

“Any bags to check?”

“No… just a carry-on.”

“This flight features a Boeing 700-300. We have you in an aisle seat. Is that okay?

“I’d prefer a window seat if you have it.”

“Let me check… sure, how about 36A. That’s a window on the left side of the plane as you face forward.”

Aara nodded. Her hands were trembling.

“First time to fly?” the agent asked.

“Yes. Is it a full flight?”

“Pretty full… 312 in economy class… all 49 sleeper seats in business are full.”

Aara took her boarding pass and made her way to the security lines. Aara removed her hijab and put it in her bag. Then she spoke to the security agent.

“I need to notify you that I am a diabetic. I have two unused syringes, a jet injector, and three vials of insulin.”

The security guard thanked her and notified the screener. She walked through the metal detector and emerged on the other side.

“Baggage check on three.”

A woman walked up to Aara’s bag and picked it up.

“May I do a second screen on your bag?”

“Yes, of course… is there a problem?” Aara said as her hands continued to tremble.

“Looks like you have some sharps in your bag. Syringes maybe?”

“Yes, I notified the officer that I am a diabetic.”

“No problem… I just need to take a look in your bag.”

The female security officer opened Aara’s bag and looked through it.

“You’re fine. Thanks for your patience. You’ve also been randomly selected for a private body scan by one of our female officers. They close the drapes so it is very private.”

The officer pointed Aara over to where a female officer in a hijab was smiling and waving her over. She stepped into the private screening room, and the woman quickly patted down her entire body.

“Thank you and enjoy your flight.”

Aara was served lunch an hour into the nearly seven-hour flight from Islamabad to London’s Heathrow. After lunch she leaned her head against the fuselage of the PIA jetliner and fell fast asleep.

The captain’s voice over the intercom startled her from her nap.

“We’re about 45-minutes out of London. This will be your last chance to use the lavatories before I turn on the seat belt sign in final preparation for landing.”

A passenger on the aisle let Aara scoot past the empty middle seat and stood up so she could use the restroom. The back of her seat was against the wall of the restroom. She had heard the sucking “whoosh” sound of the toilet flushing a hundred times during lunch and her nap.

Aara pulled out the disposable insulin vial and the pen-like insulin injector jet. She wound up the spring on the injector jet then rotated the dosing dial to its maximum. She placed the jet into the vial adapter and loaded the injector. Aara flushed the toilet, refreshed her lipstick and dabbed a drop of perfume behind each ear.

The lights of England were well within sight as the seat belt sign illuminated.

Aara said a quick prayer. She asked God to bless her younger brother, Kazi, and her grandfather, Qazvin. She was nervous as to what her new future would hold for her. She looked over and noticed that the man on the aisle had fallen back asleep. She closed her eyes and gently rubbed her breasts.

It had been nearly four weeks since Dr. Ja’far had performed the surgery he had learned from an American Army doctor. Her breasts were indeed larger, and more firm. Aara was pleased with that. She realized how smart Dr. Ja’far really was. He assured her that her breast implants would not be detected as she went through the security screening. He was correct. No one realized that her PIP implants were there, let alone filled with PETN, a military grade explosive. The disposable insulin vials were a convenient way to load the ignition liquid.

“Just wind, dial, fill and inject,” were Dr. Ja’far’s last words. Nothing could be simpler.

Aara was honored to receive this mission from her grandfather, an important role in the revolution, in The Age of the Coming. She held the injector jet over her chest and pressed the button. A spring-trigger mechanism released the gas charge and set in motion a plunger device that delivered the drug, or in this case the ignition, at a very high speed through the skin and into her breast.

The explosion filled the cabin on the flight that was landing in London.

I’m neither a scientist nor a soldier but both are my heroes. As such, I depended heavily on each for subject matter expertise. My undergraduate studies focused on world religions and journalism and my graduate studies focused on international relations and political science. This story is a work of fiction but many of the events described are “open source” and, unfortunately, were either planned or occurred.

The research science had to be accurate and plausible to be both believable and powerful. I’m indebted to the contributions of those who have dedicated their careers to biomedical research including Robert Baker, Michael Conn, Stacy LeBlanc, Angela Stoyanovich and Katja Tonsky. I am humbled by both the military and biomedical research experience offered by my friend C.D. Many thanks are in order to both Vickie Collins for incredible copy-editing, Lisa Baehr for the book layout, Rebekah Lovorn for subject matter advice, and Joe Pittman for his many editorial critiques. I am fortunate to have a great friend and DPS partner in Kent Politsch who has provided so much wisdom and depth over cigars and ale at Shelly’s, our writers’ lair in Washington, DC. To Michael Stebbins, Cherie Proctor, Liz Hodge, Nahla al Bassam and Katelyn Arthur, I thank each of you for your passion and dedication to our advocacy work at the Foundation for Biomedical Research. I am especially grateful to Frankie Trull for her continued courage, resilience and support for the worldwide research community.