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American Jackal
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A TROY STOKER, M.D. PSYCHIATRY THRILLER
AMERICAN JACKAL
DR. FRANCIS BANDETTINI
MATT NILSEN
NAOBAND, LLC
Baltic, South Dakota
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Copyright © 2014 by Francis Bandettini and Matt Nilsen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address
Naoband, LLC, PO Box PO Box 432, Baltic, SD 57003, United States of America
First Kindle Edition
Summary: “Troy Stoker, M.D. is a psychiatrist whose patient plunges him into exposing a dangerous political underworld. Dr. Stoker uses his psychiatry skills and brawn to rise up against corruption in this thriller novel.”—Provided by publisher
While the authors’ careers and individual experiences in health care have informed this book and catalyzed our creativity, this literature is fiction. This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the authors’ imaginations, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-692-28252-6
Design by Heather and Jason Steed of Targa Media
Visit www.TroyStokerMD.com
DEDICATION
To Naomi
To Julie
CONTENTS
Prologue
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
CHAPTER 98
CHAPTER 99
CHAPTER 100
CHAPTER 101
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTER 103
CHAPTER 104
CHAPTER 105
CHAPTER 106
CHAPTER 107
CHAPTER 108
CHAPTER 109
CHAPTER 110
CHAPTER 111
CHAPTER 112
CHAPTER 113
CHAPTER 114
CHAPTER 115
CHAPTER 116
CHAPTER 117
CHAPTER 118
CHAPTER 119
THE AUTHORS
PROLOGUE, STOKER, 1992
The unconscious patient was an injured Airborne Ranger. Only eighteen-year-old medic, Troy Stoker, was keeping him alive as they raced in a jeep back to the temporary airfield southeast of Laredo, Texas. A tourniquet was slowing the bleeding, but not enough. Stoker further restricted the hemorrhaging by applying direct pressure to the shredded femoral artery. “Radio into the first aid tent,” Stoker instructed the driver. “Tell them I’ve got a major compound fracture and this guy is bleeding out. We’re going to need that doctor and air evac immediately!” Stoker watched his unconscious patient’s chest rise and fall. “Now’s the time to fight, Soldier. Just keep breathing, man.”
“Troy! The aid station says the bird just left! The general is using it as a transport!”
“Tell the doctor to order it back!” yelled Stoker.
“The doctor left with the general on the helicopter!”
“Tell them to call them back! We need the doctor and we need the chopper!” The ranger’s chest continued to rise and fall—a good sign—as the driver radioed again.
“The radio man says you cannot issue those kinds of orders, Corporal!”
“I don’t give a damn if it’s an order or not an order. It’s just the right thing!” Stoker thought about his dilemma. “Let’s pull this jeep right up in front of his cozy little sunshade. You take over this wound! I can take an officer’s reprimand, but I can’t live with this man dying.”
Forty-five seconds later, the driver skidded the jeep to a stop right in front of the radio operator’s sunshade. “Call back that helicopter!” yelled Stoker as the driver jumped back to the patient and took over the first aid. “This man is about to die!”
“I can’t!” protested the radio operator, as he watched corporal Stoker jump out of the jeep with bloody hands. “I have orders from the general to—” Stoker’s gory hand reached for the radio and the operator lurched back in fear.
Stoker took over the radio and hit the transmit button. “Deathstalker, this is Medic Alpha Six. Over.”
A moment later, the pilot responded to Stoker’s call. “Medic Alpha Six, this is Deathstalker.”
“Roger,” Stoker said. “I’m a medic with an Airborne Ranger in critical condition requesting you turn that helicopter around. I need medevac and I need that doctor. Over.”
“Standby, Medic Alpha Six,” came the pilot’s reply. Silently, Stoker waited and hoped. “That’s a roger, Medic Alpha Six.” Relief flooded through Stoker. “Ground control. This is Deathstalker. Landing site clear, over?” Stoker started to hand the blood-covered radio microphone back to the radio operator, but he would not touch it. So Stoker shoved the device to within three inches of the radio operator’s mouth, turned his head to glance at the empty landing zone, and started to key the microphone so the squeamish radio operator could issue the response. The nauseated, mute radio operator stuttered a few times. Stoker yanked the microphone from the radioman and held it within an inch of his lips. He looked at the frozen radioman with disgust. “You’re a disgrace as a soldier.” Stoker again keyed the microphone. “Deathstalker, you’re clear for landing.” The broad-shouldered medic threw the microphone on the ground in exasperation, and ran back to attend to his patient.
Five minutes later the helicopter descended from the sky as Stoker and two others approached with the patient on the gurney. They had inserted an IV and were administering saline, but his pulse was still weak and his breathing labored. The doctor was the first to exit the helicopter and he ran for the patient. Stoker gave a crisp report over the roar of the helicopter rotors and engine, and the doctor took over.
“Medic Alpha Six!” bellowed the mature voice of a man who knew how to cut through the clutter of aircraft noise. Stoker snapped to attention and he issued a salute with his blood-covered hand. Stoker expected to feel fear, but oddly, he only felt serenity. He had done the right thing, even if it cost him solitary confinement or worse. “Call the MPs!” ordered the general. “Corporal, I’m placing you under arrest!”
“Sir, yes sir!” Stoker said.
Then from inside the helicopter, the voice of the doctor called out. “Arrest me, too then General. This ranger should be dead. On top of that, I was supposed to be here to save him. This young corporal did medical things today that some of our ten
-year sergeants couldn’t do—including persuading our helicopter back. If he’s not a hero, General, he’s got the potential.”
PROLOGUE, RIVERA, 1992
The visiting colonel was a complainer. The humidity and heat of the El Salvadorian jungle was hard on this pencil-pushing desk jockey. As a result, Captain Errol Rivera despised this visitor and his assignment of piloting the guest around. “So, Captain, what will you do when you return stateside?” the colonel yelled above the blades of the UH-1 Huey helicopter skimming two thousand feet above the jungle.
“I’m checking into a mental hospital where nobody can find me, and there I’ll learn the coping skills necessary for an eternity in Hell, sir!” shouted Rivera mockingly while considering the horror of the hundreds of people he’d killed in Central America. Today, Rivera’s job was dull, however. His assignment was simply to fly this colonel, who was actually an accountant with a default military rank, around El Salvador to tally up American assets and military personnel remaining from the Salvadorian Civil War. The boredom had opened Rivera’s mind to poignant, painful introspection.
“There are limited coping skills for navigating Hell, son,” replied the colonel seriously.
“It’s not the bad people that I’ve killed, sir. They deserved it. What’s punching my express ticket to Hell is the evil I perpetrated by killing kids, by killing women, the folks you accountants label as collateral damage, Colonel,” explained Rivera. “There must be a special place in Hell for people like me, and I need—” The radio interrupted Rivera as he pressed one earphone to his ear. After listening for a moment, Rivera announced, “We’ve got injured back at the base. They need immediate medical evacuation.” The seasoned helicopter pilot banked the chopper around for the return. “Ground Nine, this is Swift Sword. Roger that. Returning to base. Over.”
“Hey, wait! You get permission from me before you turn around!” demanded the colonel.
“A mine exploded, sir. One dead. Two wounded,” replied Rivera.
“Are the wounded critical?” asked the colonel.
“No, one is serious. He is currently stable—for now,” replied Rivera.
“American or El Salvadorian?”
“I don’t know, amigo. You’re asking a Cubano. I love everyone.”
“Look Captain, I’ve got an itinerary. You tell them to stabilize those guys on the ground, and you can come back for them after you’ve dropped me off in forty minutes.” Rivera ignored the colonel and punched the throttle for emphasis. “Are you ignoring a direct order, Captain?”
“No, sir. I was ignoring you momentarily while I consider your direct order,” Rivera said, turning his attention to some navigation systems for a few seconds.
“I will court martial you, Captain!”
Rivera smiled confidently and sent the helicopter into a rapid five hundred foot descent. After leveling out, he turned to the accountant who also happened to be a colonel, who was now very nauseated. “Now, I’m ignoring your order! I’ll see you at the proceedings, sir!”
Rivera repelled the dozens of insults, threats, and orders for the rest of the flight. When he landed his helicopter, a team of waiting soldiers loaded up a man with face and neck trauma, who was breathing mostly through a tracheotomy tube. The colonel was too angry to care about the injured. The other casualty climbed in under his own power. His left hand was heavily bandaged. “Thanks for coming back, Captain” he exclaimed. “They say I only have an hour or two to get these sewn back on.” In his right hand, he was holding an ice pack containing his severed fingers.
Sixty days later, and back in the United States, Rivera had been discharged from a Veteran’s Administration psychiatric unit, and he was now reporting to Fort Sam Houston to attend his pretrial hearing. The event lasted twenty-six minutes. During the hearing, the surgical notes from the physicians who treated the injured soldiers explained how a twenty minute delay would’ve cost one man his life and another man at least two fingers. The judge immediately exonerated Rivera, slammed down the gavel and made a hasty exit for his chambers. Once the judge was alone at his desk, he removed the top ten sheets of Rivera’s personnel file, and faxed them to a little-known fax number. His note on the cover sheet read:
This one’s got the goods and availability for the special training you’ve been selectively offering. Definitely not your average soldier. Call me ASAP. I’ll explain.
Twelve hours later, Rivera was back in his barracks, reflecting on his past life, his present situation, and the vast unknown days ahead. Rivera knew that the medications were slowly but surely helping to pull him out of his depression. With the proper and good use of the medications, the therapy was much more effective, and they were helping him to realize some paths in his life that he may want to take. He truly appreciated his psychiatrist, who not only listened to him, but also was able to very gently make changes to his medications. Each change seemed to help him incrementally in an overall positive direction. Rivera reflected on the recent death he had prevented by defying the colonial’s order, as well as the man’s fingers he had saved during his final days in El Salvador. Yet, he was hurting because of the many good people he had killed, accidentally.
At that moment it really sank in that Rivera had done much more good than harm. Rivera started to remember all the lives he had saved, villages he had defended, and families he had kept intact, and his pulse quickened. Deep down he knew that he helped many more good people than he had killed.