anything. I know it is difficult to comprehend at this point, but being calm is best for you and your wife until we have more facts.”
“Of course, you are right.” He began to process what she had said. “We have two boys in school. I will arrange for our sitter to pick them up and then get there as soon as I can. Please call me if there is any news of her condition.”
As he hung up, he got another call. It was Century crew scheduling, chief of operations, Dwight Hatfield, a familiar voice, since he would often call Maggie if there was a schedule change or if she was “on call” to fill in when another FA couldn’t make his or her flight.
“Mike, this is Hatfield.”
“Yes, Dwight. I just heard. What happened?” he asked.
“Maggie fainted, and John Wesley made the decision to land at BWI, just to make sure she’s okay. There was a pediatrician on board, who checked her over, but he felt she needed to get to a hospital quickly, in case her condition suddenly deteriorated,” he explained.
“Nothing else? Are you sure, Dwight?” asked Mike, his stomach tightening.
“That’s it, Mike. You know what I know. John made the decision, and you know him. He is cautious and won’t take chances, so it is probably nothing. He values his crew and felt it was in everyone’s best interest to get Maggie checked out.” Dwight was reassuring.
“Gotcha,” said Mike. “I am going to Baltimore now, so I will let you all know.”
“Thanks,” said Dwight, knowing that he and the crew would be following up on Maggie’s status anyway.
Thankfully, Mike reached the sitter, Annie, who lived in their building and frequently babysat for them.
She loved the boys, and they loved her. He called the school to notify the administration so the boys would be aware that Annie would be waiting to walk them home. He didn’t give any details so that Mike and Tim wouldn’t be upset. Until he knew what was going on, he was going to keep things calm, but he was anything but calm. His thoughts went to the terrorist threat of the NYC subway system, and Mike prayed to God that it had nothing to do with Maggie’s illness.
.
20
G eorgiana’s cell phone rang. She and Mark were sitting in his Mustang, parked by the curb, about twenty-five yards from the subway entrance. It was one of their agents, calling from inside the suspected contaminated area.
“Georgiana Reed here,” she answered.
“This is Al, George. We have a problem. Joey Caruso, the maintenance guy who found the canister. He’s down. Sick and vomiting. Unconscious. We need the medical team to come in and get him.”
The medevac helicopter was waiting on a nearby rooftop. George called for transport.
George said, “Crap, this is going to get bad.”
The squad went into action, biohazard gear in place, carrying the portable stretcher down the stairway to the subway office. All precautions had been taken as they brought Joey out, in an isolation hood, and loaded him carefully into the unmarked van, which would take him to the heliport.
Inside the office, Marty and the others had watched as Joey was put on an IV drip and oxygen, covered with a protective hood, and then carried out. They were silent, watching this scary scene, all aware that they could be next, wondering if they too had been exposed to a dangerous poison or God knows what.
After Joey was gone, the FBI forensics team took samples and placed them in secure evidence bags. Duplicate samples were secured for the CDC. The hazmat crew thoroughly cleaned the carpet and sofa where Joey had been sitting. The team leader spoke quietly to Marty, asking for Joey’s personal information and then left to follow up the transfer of Joey to the ambulance. Marty, the two police officers, and the other guys were still in shock.
Then Marty spoke, knowing his job was to rally his men and get everyone to shake this off and think rationally, especially since they had no idea what caused Joey to suddenly get so
“Of course, you are right.” He began to process what she had said. “We have two boys in school. I will arrange for our sitter to pick them up and then get there as soon as I can. Please call me if there is any news of her condition.”
As he hung up, he got another call. It was Century crew scheduling, chief of operations, Dwight Hatfield, a familiar voice, since he would often call Maggie if there was a schedule change or if she was “on call” to fill in when another FA couldn’t make his or her flight.
“Mike, this is Hatfield.”
“Yes, Dwight. I just heard. What happened?” he asked.
“Maggie fainted, and John Wesley made the decision to land at BWI, just to make sure she’s okay. There was a pediatrician on board, who checked her over, but he felt she needed to get to a hospital quickly, in case her condition suddenly deteriorated,” he explained.
“Nothing else? Are you sure, Dwight?” asked Mike, his stomach tightening.
“That’s it, Mike. You know what I know. John made the decision, and you know him. He is cautious and won’t take chances, so it is probably nothing. He values his crew and felt it was in everyone’s best interest to get Maggie checked out.” Dwight was reassuring.
“Gotcha,” said Mike. “I am going to Baltimore now, so I will let you all know.”
“Thanks,” said Dwight, knowing that he and the crew would be following up on Maggie’s status anyway.
Thankfully, Mike reached the sitter, Annie, who lived in their building and frequently babysat for them.
She loved the boys, and they loved her. He called the school to notify the administration so the boys would be aware that Annie would be waiting to walk them home. He didn’t give any details so that Mike and Tim wouldn’t be upset. Until he knew what was going on, he was going to keep things calm, but he was anything but calm. His thoughts went to the terrorist threat of the NYC subway system, and Mike prayed to God that it had nothing to do with Maggie’s illness.
.
20
G eorgiana’s cell phone rang. She and Mark were sitting in his Mustang, parked by the curb, about twenty-five yards from the subway entrance. It was one of their agents, calling from inside the suspected contaminated area.
“Georgiana Reed here,” she answered.
“This is Al, George. We have a problem. Joey Caruso, the maintenance guy who found the canister. He’s down. Sick and vomiting. Unconscious. We need the medical team to come in and get him.”
The medevac helicopter was waiting on a nearby rooftop. George called for transport.
George said, “Crap, this is going to get bad.”
The squad went into action, biohazard gear in place, carrying the portable stretcher down the stairway to the subway office. All precautions had been taken as they brought Joey out, in an isolation hood, and loaded him carefully into the unmarked van, which would take him to the heliport.
Inside the office, Marty and the others had watched as Joey was put on an IV drip and oxygen, covered with a protective hood, and then carried out. They were silent, watching this scary scene, all aware that they could be next, wondering if they too had been exposed to a dangerous poison or God knows what.
After Joey was gone, the FBI forensics team took samples and placed them in secure evidence bags. Duplicate samples were secured for the CDC. The hazmat crew thoroughly cleaned the carpet and sofa where Joey had been sitting. The team leader spoke quietly to Marty, asking for Joey’s personal information and then left to follow up the transfer of Joey to the ambulance. Marty, the two police officers, and the other guys were still in shock.
Then Marty spoke, knowing his job was to rally his men and get everyone to shake this off and think rationally, especially since they had no idea what caused Joey to suddenly get so
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