Trafford Publishing: Brothers Garden

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Brothers Garden

by H. Wayne Todd

253 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-0635; ISBN 1-4120-2807-8; US$22.50, C$26.00, EUR18.50, £13.00

Is this a well-written medical science fiction novel, or a frightening look into the future to satisfy the increasing need for organ transplants?

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About the Book About the Author Excerpts Catalogue Information

About the Book

Doctor Joyce Barnhardt, a highly respected organ transplant researcher, is made aware of an accident victim's death and autopsy that reveals the patient had recently received numerous organ transplants that showed no sign of rejection. She begins a search for the answers to this seemingly impossible surgery. Her search leads her to Seattle, Washington where she meets and falls in love with an ex-marine, Rick Marks, who is following the patient's death for life insurance reasons.
Her quest for answers leads her to "Brothers Hospital" in Miami where she gains more insight into the medical procedures and suspects the hospital is involved in criminal activities. Ultimately, she is taken to a Bahamian Island, where she is imprisoned and forced to aid Dr. Sevorski in his procedures that "program" young kidnap victim's organs to be transplanted to the very rich and powerful patients at the Brothers Hospital. Doctor Sevorski refers to his research laboratory as "The Garden".
Finally, Rich Marks and law enforcement discover the entire criminal scheme that not only involves organ transplants but heroin smuggling. Dr. Barnhardt is rescued from the island, but mad Dr. Sevorski escapes to begin further work in South America.

About the Author
Dr. H. Wayne Todd is an Endodontist who has written numerous scientific articles, but this novel is an attempt to capture an audience of readers who enjoy a good story and are not afraid to look into the dark side of science.

Excerpts
Chapter One The pilot stared through the Plexiglas windshield at the billions of white specks of light that made up this world - the sky. The air above the earth was his home, and the sleek Lear Jet had become his partner in the life he loved. As the airplane skimmed the top of the gigantic Montana snow storm, the pilot's eyes scanned the panel of instruments. "One more hour and we're home free," he thought as he reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette and settled back into the seat. It was all so routine until suddenly, the pilot felt tremendous pressure inside his skull. The unlit cigarette fell from his fingers! With both hands, he grabbed the oxygen mask and pushed it over his nose and mouth. His lungs pulled hard on the black rubber cup until his nose felt the cold dry flow of air. It was automatic. Oxygen first to survive and to clear the thinking process! Look for a reason! Find the cause! All the drills from pilot training returned.
As his brain cleared, technical and natural senses returned to normal, but it seemed as if his head was about to explode. In an instant, his eardrums popped to ease the pain. Without conscious thought, he turned and yelled to the co-pilot, "What the hell happened?" It was then that he looked back at the panel of instruments - the cabin pressure gauges were spinning like broken clocks. "Shit, we must've blown a hole in the airplane! What the hell did we hit?"
The co-pilot looked back at him, fear evident in the darting black pupils of his eyes. His voice cracked as he yelled in order to be heard above the sound of rushing air. "We must have blown the door gasket!" he screamed into the microphone inside the oxygen mask. "I warned you, Skipper. We were going too high!"
The pilot heard his words and pulled the earphones closer to his ears. "You dumb ass! Look at those gauges! We've lost more than a gasket - we've lost all the gaskets - plus maybe a window or two." The pilot saw the co-pilot's hand move toward the instrument panel, and he yelled even louder, "Don't touch that radio! Stay cool! We don't want Center to start checking our altitude read out," he said as he switched off the auto-pilot and pushed the control forward.
Within seconds, the blackened starlit night was lost to dark wisps of moisture encircling the airplane's gleaming aluminum exterior as it began its descent into the Montana snowstorm. Immediately, the airplane was thrown up and down in the turbulence. Side to side - Up and down - Fore and aft! The pilot struggled with the controls until finally the descent was stabilized. It was then that he announced to the co-pilot, "Take her down slowly to fifteen thousand! I'll check on the passenger," he said as he turned his seat and looked behind through the open cabin doorway into the dimly lit compartment that was devoid of the customary luxurious seating and appointments.
This was not the corporate jet he was trained to fly. It had been converted into a flying ambulance complete with stretcher, gas bottles, monitors - all built for the common purpose of transporting seriously ill patients. In the darkness, he could see the I.V. drip bottles attached to the helpless human form on the secured stretcher. The three television screen monitors produced curved waves of light, but their customary "beeps" were drowned out by the loud hissing sounds of escaping air. The pilot's eyes scanned the cabin trying to locate the male attendant who was in charge of the patient. Finally, he removed his oxygen mask and shouted as loudly as he could, "How is the passenger?" From behind the stretcher, a tall slim figure arose. He was dressed in a white hospital uniform that flapped in the minihurricane winds created by the escaping atmosphere. His starched white shirt was streaked from the blood that dripped from the bottom of his oxygen mask. Fear bordered on panic as he tried to speak. Finally, with both arms raised in the air, he yelled, "Hss - bd!"
The pilot knew the attendant said something, but his voice was indiscernible over the noise of the rushing air. The pilot yelled louder, "Take off the God damn mask!"
The male nurse struggled with the long black tube as he took three deep breaths and pulled the mask up so his lips could move. The trapped blood from his bleeding nose dropped to the white carpet and splattered across the floor of the airplane. "Get some pressure in here! The patient can't breath! The resuscitator is putting out too much! It will blow out his new lung or break open the whole chest!" Anxiously, the nurse replaced the cup over his face and took five or six deep breaths. Then again, his trembling fingers lifted the mouthpiece. He yelled as loudly as he could, "Damn you! If you don't get some pressure in this cabin, this man will need to go to a hospital, and you know what will happen if the Brothers get any publicity about this patient." He replaced the mask and took repeated short gasps. The attendant stood saucer-eyed in fear until again, he tore the black rubber muffle away from his face. He was defiant as he screamed, "The Brothers will not be pleased. All our asses are on the line."
The pilot removed his own mask and yelled back into the darkened compartment, "You idiot! We've tried everything, but the pressure pump can't keep up. I'll get down to a better altitude, but it takes time. And in case you haven't noticed, we're in the middle of one hell of a storm. Most of the airports are closed. We're gonna try to land at Livingston - it was above minimums the last time I checked." Quickly, the pilot recovered his mouth and sucked in some oxygen. After four quick gulps, again he pulled away the black cup and screamed, "But in the mean time, you worry about the patient and your own ass. I get paid to fly." He replaced the mask, this time attaching the straps to hold it in place. Then he turned back to the controls and mentally began to go through a landing checklist. Finally, he took a deep breath, took the control wheel in both hands and said to the co-pilot, "I'll take her. Set up an ILS for Livingston."
The co-pilot automatically nodded in understanding, but the hesitation and squint of his eyes could not hide his ever increasing fear. He too, was bleeding from the nose. The sudden loss of pressure in the cabin had taken its toll.
The pilot looked down at the switch on the control yoke that activated the radio microphone in his mask. Nervously, he licked his lower lip; all the time - thinking. His thoughts came like machine gun fire. The story had to be good, but what would be the result? Questions filled his brain, but there were no answers; only more questions! He hesitated for one more instant and then pushed the button on the control wheel. "Center, this is Two Zero One Papa Mike. Do you read?" He moved his jaw from side to side in order to clear his ears as he anxiously waited for the voice from the earphones to respond.
"Roger, Papa Mike, this is Center; go ahead."
"Papa Mike has a seriously ill passenger on board, and we've lost cabin pressure. We need to land immediately in Livingston." "Understand, Two Zero One Papa Mike; are you declaring an emergency?"
His finger paused on the transmit button. He knew the consequences of what he was about to say: the reports, the paperwork, the justification, and the ultimate hearing. His finger lingered for one last moment and then it squeezed. "Roger center...MAY DAY!"
His earphones became silent. The sound of escaping air in the cabin drowned out everything. His thoughts again ran rampant. "Why are they taking so long? How far off course were we? Shit, did they finally realize I was seven thousand feet too high? - I had a good reason! I needed to get over the storm! I didn't have time for their silly rules!" Finally Center replied, "Roger - Two Zero One Papa Mike - Understand emergency!
We're alerting all aircraft and Livingston of your condition!" Again the pause and no sound except the hissing of air until the earphones questioned, "Papa Mike, what happened to your flight plan and reporting? We've tried to reach you since you last reported KC Corn Intersection."
"What should he say? He had purposely altered the altimeter setting on the transponder in order to reflect a lower altitude. He had turned off the receiver so Center could not possibly direct him to another vector - or worse - another airport. Finally, the words came, "Malfunction! We had an electrical short in the system, and it took time to find it."
"Roger Papa Mike! You are presently sixty two miles southeast of the airport. Altimeter reading - two nineer eight five. Your mode C is squawking nineer thousand. Report the marker inbound. Clear to land."
He had heard similar instructions a thousand times before, but rarely in a storm of this intensity. The wiper blades raked across the windshield, but he could see nothing except black moisture patterns streaking across the hardened plastic window. His eyes lowered to the instruments. The VOR display told him that he was left of course and above the approach. He corrected with the rudders and lowered the nose. Still left! Correct more! Too much! The needle swung past center! Still too high! He corrected - again too much. His eyes darted to the windshield - still nothing but black streaks of snow and ice. Quickly, his eyes refocused on the instrument that showed him the electronic highway in the sky. The horizontal bar lifted to the top of the gauge. The altimeter read eight thousand feet. Getting close to slope, he thought as the airplane began to pitch violently in response to turbulence. He struggled with all his experience and might to keep the airplane on the glide slope.
"Too low! Pull up!" the co-pilot screamed.

Catalogue Information