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Other members of the detail come through to her, pushing people and chairs and tables aside. The voices are louder now, with calls of “What’s wrong? What’s going on?” from the other diners.
Harrison’s training comes right to her as she instantly responds.
Alamo is on her back, eyes closed. She’s wearing a red linen skirt and jacket ensemble, black blouse. She checks her pulse at the side of her neck. Weak but regular. Harrison checks her mouth, makes sure her airway is clear. Alamo is fifty-four years ofage, dark complexion and black hair, and is an avid jogger and tennis player.
“Madam Vice President,” she says, speaking loudly as the other Secret Service agents push away her dining companions. “Can you hear me? Madam Vice President? Can you hear me?”
A door slams open and four Secret Service agents run in ahead of members of MERT (Medical Emergency Response Team) carrying canvas bags of medical gear shoving people aside.
Harrison gets up. “Alamo had a coughing fit,” she says. “Collapsed. She’s breathing and has a steady but weak pulse. But she’s unresponsive.”
The lead medic says, “Okay, she’s ours,” as bags get unzipped and monitoring equipment, a green oxygen bottle, and other gear is swiftly removed.
“Amy, this is Marianne,” she says, speaking into her wrist microphone.
“Marianne, this is Amy,” comes the quick reply. “Status?”
“MERT is on scene. We’re going to need transport soonest,” she says.
“Ambulance and escort vehicles are already at the rear kitchen entrance,” the Secret Service agent says. “We have a gurney and three Las Vegas Fire Department EMTs en route, they should be there in about a minute.”
“Roger that,” she says, catching her breath. Whenever Alamo or the president, known as Sierra, go to public events like this, her agency always ensures there’s a trauma unit within a ten-minute drive.
She catches the eye of Agent Frank Chan. “Frank, everything on this table is evidence. Alamo might have been poisoned. Guard it until the FBI gets in here.”
“Roger that, Marianne.”
Harrison brings her wrist microphone up, takes a breath. “Rudy, this is Marianne,” she says, calling the agent in charge of covering the hotel’s kitchen area.
“Marianne, this is Rudy, go.”
“Shut down the kitchen. Nobody leaves or enters, none of the food or scraps or dirty pots and pans get touched. Understood?”
“Yes, Marianne.”
“I don’t care if the chef or the restaurant manager go apeshit, nothing leaves, enters, or gets touched in there.”
“Understood,” he says.
Marianne stares at the table, at the uneaten food—prime rib or salmon—and the overturned glassware.
Failure, she thinks. Something’s happened to Alamo. A strong, athletic woman like that collapsing and going right into unconsciousness, with no warning?
What just happened here?
A medical emergency?
Or an assassination attempt?
BULLETIN
LAS VEGAS (AP)—Vice President Laura Hernandez was rushed to the University Medical Center hospital here after collapsing and becoming unconscious at the Waldorf Astoria on Las Vegas Boulevard South.
Witnesses told reporters at the scene that the vice president had a spell of loud coughing before falling to the floor of a private hotel dining room. Secret Service agents and EMTs from the Las Vegas Fire Department provided immediate assistance before she was transported at 5:46 p.m. Pacific Standard Time.
Her current condition is unknown.
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