“I’m sorry, sir.”
Hicks emits only a strained grunt before the phone line goes dead.
God, what have I done? she wonders with burning regret.
* * *
MONDAY, 10:07 A.M. She catches the Blue Line heading north, which travels under the Potomac and into the federal district. Hayley estimates she’ll be at her desk in the West Wing by ten-thirty a.m. As the train leaves the subterranean Pentagon station, she decides it’s time to get back to work in more ways than one. This renewed obsession with her father’s death in Iraq is a vicious spiral that leads only downward. Let the dead stay dead. And leave Charlie Hicks in peace. Further inquiry would be both futile and sadistic. She has enough on her plate already.
Checking her KryptAll phone before the train heads into the tunnel that goes under the river, Hayley sees she has received a message from Andrew Wilde.
No further information regarding your intruder.
So analysis by Publius of the surveillance footage of her apartment break-in proved futile. Hayley isn’t surprised. From the outset, Andrew Wilde was dismissive of her concerns. Is his indifference evidence of the imminent termination of her work for the deeper state? Or was the incident nothing more than a random robbery? To the best of her knowledge, the intruder took only a jar of quarters she kept on the dresser. For someone like Hayley, the uncertainty is maddening. Without one shred of actionable intelligence, there is nothing to be done.
Her only recourse is to continue operating with her customary caution. She will exercise extreme vigilance for any sign of surveillance or investigation by a bad actor. Nevertheless, Hayley must recognize her position with Publius feels increasingly tenuous. The more she thinks on it—her train reaching its mandated top speed of 59 mph—the less sure Hayley feels about anything.
She clocks that funny itch on the back of her neck. A sense of foreboding. Seconds later, a terrifying, metal-on-metal screech fills the train car’s interior. Because of that premonition and her excellent reflexes, Hayley can brace herself with both hands against the seat back in front of her a fraction of a second before the entire train bucks violently and lurches to the right. Most passengers are ejected from their seats as the lights flicker off. The nightmarish roller-coaster ride continues for ten agonizing seconds longer, the racket deafening, when the thrusting and violent thuds finally cease. Abrupt silence follows. In those earliest moments, there is only disorientation and disbelief.
The wails and moaning that rise from the inky gloom are evidence there have been many injuries. Unable to see in the darkness, Hayley runs both hands over her body and finds no injuries. Searching her bag in the dark, she ascertains the KryptAll phone is safely stowed and then retrieves her regular work iPhone. Utilizing the flashlight feature, Hayley observes the scene around her. The train car seems intact, contrary to her earliest fears, but its passengers—she estimates there are approximately twenty in total—lie scattered throughout the length of the carriage.
Hayley stands and moves forward, illuminating her way in the darkness with her phone. Doing a quick triage on the passengers she encounters, Hayley determines a woman—in her sixties, dress blood soaked—has sustained the most severe injuries. Suspecting the victim’s femoral artery might be bleeding out, Hayley stops there to lend first aid.
Another man about her age sits on the floor next to the older woman, nursing what looks like a broken left hand.
“Is your other hand okay?” Hayley asks the young man. He nods, his stunned expression pale in the dim light of her smartphone.
“Hold my phone. I’ve got to stop her bleeding,” the deeper state operative says, gesturing toward the woman. Her voice—calm and knowing—demands obedience. The young man takes the phone and directs the flashlight downward.
Hayley pushes the woman’s skirt up to her hip, exposing a gaping wound that pulsates dark blood with every beat of her heart. Checking the gash for any foreign objects, she has difficulty seeing in the unsteady light.
“Hold still!” she says to her helper. Off his embarrassed expression, Hayley softens her tone. “She’ll lose forty percent of her blood in less than three minutes.”
“Should we make a tourniquet or something?”
Hayley has finished her inspection of the wound and is confident there are no foreign objects embedded there. She starts removing her sweater.
“Unless you happen to have a commercial tourniquet on you, direct pressure is more effective… especially with the femoral artery.”
With her upper body weight, Hayley presses her rolled-up sweater on the gash. The semiconscious woman moans but doesn’t appear to be in shock.
“My hand is pretty fucked-up,” the young man says, apropos to nothing.
Hayley ignores him, focusing her attention on the older woman again. Satisfied the leg is well supported, she leans with most of her weight on the wound. Minutes tick past. The young man looks on, thoroughly chastised. His grip on the phone is steady. Hayley’s calm competence makes a strong impression on him. Tomorrow he will enroll in a free class at the local Red Cross, where he will acquire certification in first aid and CPR. That experience will compel him to return to college, which he never completed, and pursue premed coursework. Five years after the subway accident, he will enter medical school and ultimately acquire his degree, with a specialty in emergency medicine. Throughout a thirty-eight-year career, Hayley’s dragooned helper on the Metro car will save countless lives. He will retire eventually and live a quiet life in Bethesda, Maryland, in the company of kids and grandkids, forgetting entirely the example of the competent, young woman who inspired him to alter his life’s path.
The woman’s blood loss appears to have been slowed by Hayley’s efforts. “I think she’s going to be okay,” she says to no one in particular.
Shouts drift into the car from outside, accompanied by flashlights that play across the shattered windows and subway tunnel walls. Having approached via the subway tunnel leading from the Rosslyn station, first responders flood onto the scene within ten minutes of the derailment. Firefighters relieve Hayley.
“You saved her life,” a firefighter says to the White House staffer as she steps back to give the emergency workers room to do their job. Hayley doesn’t respond, following other firefighters who lead ambulatory passengers off the train and back up the tunnel illuminated by dozens of helmet-mounted flashlights. Glancing over her shoulder, she sees where the train’s first three cars have jumped the track. Hayley considers herself fortunate to be walking away from the accident without a scratch.
She treks back to the Rosslyn station through a mostly dark subway tunnel. Thirty minutes later, Hayley finally emerges into daylight again as she climbs the last steps up to the sidewalk along Fort Myer Drive. Bright, spring sunshine casts the scene of pandemonium in a garish light. Emergency personnel give aid to the injured. A growing crowd of gawkers, drawn by media reports, clogs the sidewalks. Police and emergency vehicle sirens wail in every direction. Hayley’s path forward is blocked by the mob of onlookers. Impatient to get back to work, she forces her way through the crowd to the open street, where she hails a passing cab.
* * *
MONDAY, 1:03 P.M. When Hayley walks into the office, Kyle Rodgers looks up from work on his desk with an alarmed expression.