Procedurally, the surgery went very well. Dr. Ankner had performed dozens of bypasses far more complex than this. In fact, were it not for the fact that the sternum he was wiring back into place belonged to the leader of a powerful nuclear-armed nation, he probably would have forgotten all about the operation by the time he was having his first sip of dinner wine.
“Staple gun.”
Of course, such a casual attitude would also have required his failing to notice the eleven three-piece suits lining the glass operating-theatre windows above him, intently watching his every gesture. Well, to each his followers, he thought to himself. Mine just don’t carry briefcases that fail airport security checks, that’s all.
“Thank you, gentlemen. Let’s wrap it up.”
He completed the operation eighty minutes after it had begun. Nobody at Walter Reed Army Hospital could miss the fact that something major, and of delicate inter-national import, was taking place in the operating theatre. The presence of a tinted-glass van full of State Department officials assured that. So did the presence of two muscle-bound operating-room technicians, looking uncomfortable in the scrubs they’d been forced to wear as they watched Ankner’s every move.
Nonetheless, this wasn’t the first time foreign heads of state had been rushed to this hospital for specialized surgery. Few medical centers were as well-equipped with high-tech lifesaving gear, or as well-staffed. And when the heart surgery went well, the hospital looked good, Washington looked good, and the state of American medical science looked good.
And Secretary of State Henry Masso, hooked by hotline to the operating room, dearly wanted it all to look good. Russia and Moldova had announced they would proceed no further in the negotiations without Jurenko’s participation; that meant that the summit was on hold until he recovered. Masso found the timing excruciating; for the first time since the dissolution of the USSR, a lasting power arrangement was at hand. If the treaty was successful, Masso knew he could essentially write his own results for the next election.
But with Jurenko anesthetized on a table somewhere, Masso could do nothing but hold his breath along with the rest of the Administration.
Ankner nodded to the attending surgeon in charge and went to wash up. A resident took care of the operation’s remaining details.
Ten minutes later, Ankner walked over to the cardiothoracic unit—intensive care for post-op thoracic patients. Walter Reed’s CTU was state-of-the-art, with a computer terminal for every two beds. Each tracked every patient’s chemistries, blood count, even their insurance records. A nurse could consult a monitor and learn the results of the latest lab report when they were only a minute old. And each terminal was linked to the CTU’s central computer—a Macintosh Performa.
