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29
Flights 1, 2, and 3 of the 55th Aviation Battalion (MAES) sat alert and ready on the flight pads atop Building 4 at Walter Reed. Maxie, in full flight gear except for the helmet, hurried down a first floor corridor in search of cigarettes—followed by the wide-eyed gaze of staff and patients alike—when Paul Van Meeuwen grabbed her by the arm and yanked her into a semi-dark alcove. “Maxie!”
She gulped air, trying to get her breath. “What—?”
“Maxie!” He gripped her arms painfully and shook her. His face was contorted with need and desperation. “I’ve been calling and calling. Why haven’t you returned my calls? You know that wasn’t me the other night.”
She tried to push him away, got one arm free. “Paul, you bastard, let me go.”
“Maxie—”
“I’ve had it, Paul. I’m not taking any more of your baloney. I’m a lady, dammit.”
“I demand you talk to me, bitch!” He grappled with her, trying to regain a hold of her other arm, the one with the gun strapped under it. She twisted to one side, repeatedly slapping his hand away. She had a wiry strength, and suddenly she saw him, as Tory had—a weak man, a bully, a charmer, a selfish boy who had never grown up. “Maxie, please, I promise—”
“No! Let go. Paul,” she said through gritted teeth, looking right and left in the dim area, noting that passers by were beginning to notice, “you can’t go grabbing people. You can’t have your way. It’s over between us.” She grew frightened, seeing rage in his eyes. He reddened and his jowls shook as something built up inside of him.
She tried to back away.
He put the fingers of one hand around her neck and squeezed, while raising the other fist way back and up high as if gathering to strike a blow that would surely kill her. The desire to kill radiated from his crazed eyes.
Breaking through the chains of paralysis, seeing stars already because the blood flow was impeded in her neck, she kicked her steel-toed paratroop boot against his shin. Turning slightly, she raked the boot’s outer edge down along the shin, and stomped on the arch of his foot.
Van Meeuwen yelled, and his fingers loosened from her neck.
She kicked him on the knee, and he went down with a grimace of pain, holding his knee with both hands. In her anger—a complete rage, directed not only against him but against her parents, against the whole world that kept molding and compressing her into shapes that brought only pain—she pulled out the 9 mm. automatic and pointed it at him. She wanted to yell “If you ever bother me again, I’ll blow your ass off!” but the words would not come out. For a moment she wanted to pull the trigger. She caught herself, enraged to the point of shooting this awful man, becoming guilty of killing someone, and ruining her life in the process. She couldn’t do it. The gun faltered and Van Meeuwen’s scheming eyes were upon it, no doubt thinking how he could turn the situation to his advantage. A grin was actually beginning to spread around his coldly handsome features as he realized her helplessness.
Lights were going on, and she heard feet approaching at a run.
Van Meeuwen rose limping, straightening out his long white coat. He took control with a cruel, bullying tone of efficiency and command in his voice. “You won’t get away with this.” It was the Reasonable Doctorly Tone.
“Get away with what, Paul? Self defense?” she asked bitterly.
“I am going to destroy your life and your career,” he said calmly, as if offering a lady a chair to sit on. He held on to the wainscoting and hobbled, grimacing.
“What’s going on here?” a voice yelled from the corridor.
Swiftly, Maxie pressed the button that dropped the clip out of her gun. She slipped the clip deftly in her pocket. In the same motion she tossed the empty gun high in the air so it would arc down toward him. “Here, Paul, catch!”
Van Meeuwen reacted by instinct, catching the falling automatic to his gut with both hands in a beautiful football move, with a little sideways dance step and all, before he grimaced and caught himself again on the wainscoting. The gun sat idly in his hand, pointed in her general direction as he squinted down at his knee and gasped with pain.
At the same moment, Maxie threw herself on her knees. She extended her arms in a crucifix, knees spread, sprawling backwards not quite falling. She wailed as loudly as she could: “Please, Paul, don’t shoot me. Don’t kill me. Don’t rape me. I’m not the one who stole your drug money. I would never report that you killed those patients. I’m innocent! Oh please, don’t do it. Spare me! I’ll never tell anyone about the bodies.”
The lights went on fully, and there was Maxie on her knees, pleading loudly, and there stood Paul Van Meeuwen, sheepishly holding the gun. And there came two MP’s in full regalia, drawing down on Van Meeuwen. “Hit the floor!” one bellowed hoarsely. “Drop the gun and dive!” the other yelled. “Down or I’ll shoot to kill!” Hammers were cocked with loud clicking noises. A heartbeat away from death, Paul dropped the gun. Before it hit the floor, he did. The two MP’s manhandled him. One had a boot on his neck and pointed a gun at his head, while the other handcuffed him. Paul had a distinctly painful, unhappy, and very scared expression. Serves him right, Maxie thought.
An elderly doctor helped Maxie to her feet. “Are you all right, my dear?”
She eyed the brigadier general star on each collar tip and realized it was the Chief of Surgery, Paul’s topmost boss. “Yessir. He was going to kill me.” Which was true. She could explain the details later. “I’m glad you all came to rescue me.”
The general grunted. “I’ve had doubts and questions about this man all along.” He turned and said to the MP’s: “I want this man taken to the psychiatric lockdown and held for examination. Put him in a straight jacket.”
Maxie said: “Sir, I’m wanted on the flight deck. It’s an emergency. Can I be excused? I’ll file my report as soon as I’m free from duty.”
“Just leave your name and ID with the MP’s,” the general said, noting her unit insignia. “Good luck to you, young lady.” He shook her hand. “We’re all so proud of you!”
Maxie’s last view of Paul Van Meeuwen was his crushed expression as he was led away under heavy guard. He was handcuffed and hobbling; the MP’s still had their guns drawn, no doubt ready to shoot him at the slightest sign of psychopathic violence. She trotted back toward the elevator. Dammit, and now she couldn’t make it to the PX in time! What a pain in the rear, this Van Meeuwen. In a corner stood a couple of grizzled old retired soldiers, white haired and gaunt. They wore hospital jammies and were on crutches. One ancient veteran was just about to peel a brand-new pack of unfiltered Camels with shaky fingers. Maxie waved a fifty dollar bill in his face and grabbed the cigarettes at the same time. “Here’s your fifty bucks. Gimme them.”
The old man smiled toothlessly as he took the money. “I was just about to quit smoking.”
She ran to the elevators. “Thanks, you are a gentleman!” she yelled over her shoulder.
“I can get you another pack anytime!” he yelled after her. “Anytime at all!”
Within a half hour, she was airborne along with the full flight team on Flight 1. All three choppers were sent to a terrible accident at a munitions depot just outside Washington. It had been the main depot for small arms and training explosives for the entire region. Four city blocks were flattened and there were many casualties. They worked with civilian paramedics on the ground and bundled about fifteen badly burned workers for transport in land ambulances to a nearby civilian hospital. Maxie worked hard, ignoring the smells of various things burning, and the screams of the burned. Her flight suit was covered with stains—blood, plasma, tar, ashes. And tears.
On the flight back, as afternoon turned into evening, Tom Dash made his clumsy, shy pass. Maxie was still in the bloody flight suit because she felt cold; it was drafty in the chopper. One of the other nurses had stripped down to her fatigues and T-shirt and was putting on clean flight overalls she must have brought with her. Another sat huddled in a blanket, looking as though she needed to sob but couldn’t—a new nurse, young, just out of school. Maxie, who had nearly ten years’ hospital experience at age 30, put her hand on the girl’s shoulder and stayed with her a bit. Tom stepped into the rear section holding a cup of coffee and walked directly over to Maxie. “Excuse me, Ma’am, but do you have any sugar?” He outranked her and could have called her Lieutenant. Maxie felt utterly charmed inside.
“Why yes, Major, I believe I know where some is. Why don’t you go back up front and I’ll find it and bring it to you?”
“Thank you.” He sort of made a little bow and went back to the cockpit. Irma Dagdagan winked at Maxie and tossed a couple of sugar packets through the air. “Go get ‘im, Maxie!”
“What ever do you mean?” Maxie said. She went forward and handed Tom Dash his sugar. “There you are,” she said.
He seemed tongue tied. “Thank you very much.”
The pilot, if he cared, did not pay any attention. Goggled and helmeted, he drove the craft on at a steady clip under mixed clouds toward the blinking red eye of Washington’s Monument. Maxie took a deep breath and blurted: “It’s so neat up here! Sometimes I think I might just go to flight school. What’s this button? And that light?” Tom Dash lit up, overcoming his abashedness, and launched into a delighted lecture about the control panels. Maxie watched him as he spoke. He seemed so different from Paul. More like David. Maybe a little shyer. Rock solid under the surface, handsome, and tending to blush when spoken to. By the time they landed on Building 4, he asked to take her for pizza and cokes. “—When this is all over,” he added.
“I think that sounds like a fun idea,” she said. The pilot turned on the P.A. “Got bad news for you, gang. We’re back on Alert status. There’s chaos in the streets, and we’re gonna be on standby all night.” A chorus of groans arose. “Sorry about that,” the pilot said in a black humor, turning off the P.A. with a flick of a gloved thumb. Tom whispered to Maxie: “Looks like that pizza will have to hold a while.” She squeezed his hand and beamed. “I can wait.” The look in his eyes said that he could too.
ALLISON: And now this development in our breaking story at the Second Constitutional Convention. Peggy DeMetrio is at the Atlantic Hotel & Convention Center.
PEGGY: Allison, night has fallen. I’m on the corner of Connecticut and Wyoming Avenues, about a block from the Hotel Atlantic, and as you can see and hear, I am watching an endless line of military vehicles stream past.
ALLISON: What are they? Ambulances? Humvees?
PEGGY: Not ambulances, nothing with flashing lights and sirens. Just an endless stream of olive-drab trucks with dark bluish camouflage splotches, an occasional humvee, and more trucks.
ALLISON: Does it appear they are bringing in supplies or troops?
PEGGY: Allison, a moment ago, three Army medevac choppers with big red crosses on white backgrounds pounded by overhead. They had red crosses on their bottoms and sides, and I can see from here that they are landing on the roof of Tower 3.
ALLISON: Excuse me, Peggy. We have a bulletin from WCCR’s John Bell inside the Atlantic Hotel and Convention Center. Let’s switch to John.
JOHN: I’m in the Press Room on the third floor of Tower Two, and we’re detained here, so it seems, or maybe a better word is contained, we are contained here. There’s plenty of coffee, they brought in donuts, we can go to the bathroom, and they’ve told us if we want to we can leave the building under escort but we cannot, I repeat, cannot, get back in. Most of us have elected to stay in here, hoping for a briefing from General Montclair.
ALLISON: John, any word from General Montclair what’s going on?
JOHN: Not a clue. I’ll sit tight and give you a heads up when and if something more happens.
ALLISON: Thanks, John. Good luck. Peggy has just signaled from the street near CON2. Peggy?
PEGGY: One of the Army Air Evac helicopters now takes off from the roof of Tower Three and appears to head toward Bethesda. I’m told it’s eerily calm along streets outside government office buildings, most of which have lots of lights lit. The Capitol, where both houses of Congress meet every day when they are in session, is quiet. I’m told there are lights on in the Dirksen and Rayburn office buildings which house, respectively, the Senators and the Representatives. Neither building is more than two minutes away from the Capitol by underground railway. Wait a minute. Oh my God. Oh. Oh.
ALLISON: Peggy, you’re breaking up. Peggy? Can you hear me? Do we have—? Yes, we have—
PEGGY: Allison, I see an unbelievable scene out here. While the two other Army choppers took off, I just witnessed an apparently unrelated event. A carload of black motorists passing through a checkpoint have been hauled from their car by men in blue-and-yellow camouflage fatigues. The commandos wrestle with these four or five big men, who may have been drinking. Now there is a fight and clubs swing and, oh my God, several shots. Several shots!
ALLISON: We hear popping noises. What’s that? What is it?
PEGGY: Shooting! There is shooting over there. We are flat on the ground now, to avoid getting hit. The camera woman and I are okay so far. The motorists aren’t resisting, they are down on the ground. The shooting has stopped. Someone, an officer, is running. There are people running. I have to question how disciplined some of these shock troops really are! Now a second one of the Army choppers makes a wide circle and appears headed in this direction. Maybe to pick up wounded. I hope nobody just got killed over there. Yes, one chopper is landing in the middle of the intersection and the noise is so loud. Can you still hear me?
ALLISON: We’ve lost contact with our Peggy DeMetrio. Please stand by... Stand by... Stand by. I think we’re getting something. Peggy? Ah—Peggy, you’re coming in choppy. Are you still outside the Atlantic?
PEGGY: Allison, we were cut off for a few minutes because of the most incredible thing. Commandos in blue and yellow fatigue uniforms tried to stop these Army medics from treating the motorists who’d been shot. They also started to arrest me. Finally, a doctor, a colonel, ordered the commandos back. The other chopper has taken off and the commandos have returned inside the hotel. The flight doctors and nurses are from Walter Reed Army Hospital. I spoke with Captain Maxine Bodley, 55th Aviation Battalion.
ALLISON: We’ll roll that footage now, Peggy.
PEGGY: Captain Bodley, what is the status of these casualties? Can you tell us?
BODLEY: Two of the men that we flew out have major trauma. We stopped the bleeding, treated for shock, and put them on life support when we loaded them up. These other two we’ll patch up and turn over to the National Guard MPs shortly. You’ll have to call Walter Reed for further info.
PEGGY: Captain, can you tell us about—?
BODLEY: (half in the chopper, one boot dangling) We’re taking off now. You’d better get back. This prop wash will mess up your hair.
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