‘And Remy? How's Remy?’
‘We’ve had it from Race Control – she's been given an emergency tracheotomy.’
‘At the hospital?’
‘At the crash site.’
‘Jesus,’ exhaled Quartano. ‘I’m going to send you the best medical care. Let me know as soon as you can what she needs. Please report back hour by hour.’
‘Of course, DQ. For now, though, I think we’re okay. Everyone's stated without reservation that the medical team at the designated hospital is world class.’
‘Even so … what's likely to happen next?’
‘No one has a clue. There's pandemonium here.’
‘Surely there's a pre-set contingency plan?’
‘Indeed – the FIA has called the team bosses to an emergency meeting.’
‘But?’
‘The scale of this calamity has thrown everyone. No plan caters for twenty-five dead spectators. Counterproductively, the local authority is openly doubting the FIA's ability to handle the crisis management – and so has called its own emergency meeting, which doesn’t bode well.’
Quartano grunted. ‘Why's that?’
‘Because both emergency meetings have been scheduled for the same time in different places.’
‘Someone's got to get a grip.’
‘They have, which is why – even after such a short time – the call's gone out to the FIA president. San Marino's flying in from Helsinki; should be here in a couple of hours.’
‘Well if anyone can hold this together … Presumably there’ll be an investigation; has any formal announcement been made, yet?’
‘No, it's still far too chaotic. There's an FIA press conference scheduled for eight o’clock, Moscow time, this evening.’
‘Which ought to provide some focus.’
‘Except no one can agree on what should be said.’
‘Keep me posted: let me know whatever you need. The whole of Quartech is at your disposal.’
‘Thank you, DQ; very reassuring. I’ll go and participate in the disaster management in any way I can. I’ll report back soonest.’
Four miles from the Grand Prix circuit, and now hovering above the car park of the Yeltsin Medical Centre, the helicopter carrying the still-unconscious Remy Sabatino was setting up to land.
Squinting against the downdraught as the aircraft began to put down, a team of white-tunicked medics stood to the side of the car park with a trolley, ready waiting. The helicopter landed on the asphalt and its side doors were slid open.
The hospital's medical team closed in. Sabatino's stretcher was lifted and slid onto the gurney. She was still in her helmet and racing gear. Dr Fairfax was carrying the drip above her right elbow while, with his other hand, he held the oxygen mask as securely as he could manage over the hole in Sabatino's throat.
At the run, the trolley was pushed across the smooth surface of the car park. The main doors of the hospital were being held open. Sabatino was rolled straight through – into the reception area – where a consultant was already waiting to receive the casualty.
Dr Fairfax introduced himself, handing over the drip, mask and pump to the hospital nurses; he explained what had happened, what he had found at the crash scene and what he had administered. Without delay, Mr Pyotr Uglov – the senior trauma consultant in the Yeltsin Medical Centre – issued instructions to several of his staff, and the stricken Formula One driver was rushed away towards the lifts. Before leaving to follow on, Uglov told Fairfax that Sabatino would be taken straight into their emergency assessment room.
Before the lift doors had even shut, Uglov began to assess his patient. While peering through her visor and shining a penlight into each eye, he asked for a pulse.
He was told it was fast and thready.
A nurse was placing an oximeter clip over one of the fingers of her left hand; its wires were quickly plugged into a portable monitor allowing Uglov to gauge the oxygenation of her blood.
It was low, despite the oxygen supplied through the mask.
The consultant leant down and examined Fairfax's emergency tracheotomy. Her airway was still open. There was a significant amount of blood. He asked the person now carrying the pump to suck out what they could.
The hole in her neck, though, was at least allowing Sabatino to breathe.
As the lift doors opened, the trolley party burst out and charged through a set of double doors – also being held open – straight into the assessment room. Immediately it came to a stop inside, the consultant gave his team the go-ahead to execute the tasks he had allocated beforehand.
From different directions, medical staff closed in on Sabatino. Most were carrying scissors, ready to cut through Sabatino's clothes – to clear the way for further examination. One of the first cuts went the length of Sabatino's front, exposing the skin of her chest and abdomen. Self-adhesive tabs were peeled from the backs of ECG electrodes. These were then applied with care – allowing for possible broken ribs – around her heart and lungs. Leads were connected to each of the electrodes and then to the central monitor; before long a beep could be heard marking out her heartbeat.
It was fast and weak.
Another cut was made through her left sleeve. Sabatino's arm was deformed. The skin of her other arm was exposed instead. A nurse fed a blood pressure gauge underneath it. That was wired up to a monitor and its readings, too, were announced to the room.
Sabatino's blood pressure was disturbingly low.
A circular power saw was fired up. One medic held the driver's head steady while its operator sliced through Sabatino's helmet, trying to free her without causing any more damage. Immediately it was away, Uglov examined her mouth, opened her jaw and inserted his fingers to reposition her tongue.
‘Pass me the airway.’
