Dangerous Waters

by Radclyffe

  As if she’d ever be that possessive even if she did have some right. Dara stifled a snarl when the reporter joined them and managed to position herself directly in Sawyer’s line of sight. Yeah, real subtle.

  Catherine pointed to the ID card she’d already been assigned by someone in the media affairs office, proclaiming her official status. “General Baker assured Les Bennett, my producer, there’d be no problem getting me access to your operations. After all, it’s in the public’s best interests to be properly informed in a timely manner.”

  “It’s in your best interests,” Sawyer said in a flat voice Dara recognized as the one that usually meant Sawyer was working hard not to explode, “to remain safe and capable of filing your reports.”

  Catherine laughed, a throaty sound that might have come off as practiced if it didn’t suit her sophisticated persona so damn well. “I have no doubt you’ll be able to keep me perfectly safe and…”

  Don’t say satisfied, Dara fumed inwardly. Just do not go there.

  “…secure.”

  “I plan to keep everyone safe,” Sawyer said with no trace of a smile. “Just follow my orders and you’ll be fine.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.” Catherine’s smile was luminous in the dim light of the hangar.

  Dara resisted rolling her eyes. Barely. The woman was damn beautiful, she had to admit, but did she have to be aiming all 1000 kilowatts directly at Sawyer?

  Sawyer merely nodded and focused on Dara, somehow managing to ignore all that heat surging her way. “Dara, Sergeant Jones can give you a tour of the medical facilities on board before we take off. I’ll be back after I check with Charlie Tango 2.”

  “Of course.” Dara looked around for Sergeant Jones in the hopes of making a quick exit. Sawyer no doubt had a million details to review before the mission began, so she had a very good excuse for disappearing. Dara, on the other hand, couldn’t think of one fast enough, and Catherine Winchell effortlessly intercepted her before she could search out the corpsman.

  “How did you come to meet Sawyer?” Catherine asked.

  Sergeant Jones had unobtrusively slipped away. Wise man. Dara wished she could follow. She couldn’t see a recorder anywhere, but she bet there was one somewhere in the pocket of the tan flight suit Catherine Winchell somehow managed to wear with a stylish flair. Dara was pretty sure she just looked shapeless in hers. Like she really should be worrying about that now. Although she had noticed how good Sawyer looked in the equipment-laden vest and BDU pants that hugged her thighs. Thankfully the poor illumination hid the flush she felt creeping up her neck at the image.

  Dara hoped a noncommittal answer would shut down further questions. “Colonel Kincaid, as I’m sure you already know, is heading up the rescue and recovery arm of the National Guard’s operation in response to Leo. Miami Memorial is the medical command center. We’re coordinating efforts.”

  “And you got a ride-along on the first wave. Nice work.”

  Dara’s back teeth started to ache, a sure sign her temper was about to fray. “I’m not sightseeing. We’ve got critical patients to move. The first run of many, probably.”

  “So tell me,” Catherine said conversationally, relaxed and friendly, as if they were sharing a pre-dinner glass of wine at poolside, “what’s it like working with the military? You seem like someone who likes to be in charge, and I assume you’ll be taking orders now.”

  The woman was uncanny in ferreting out the sensitive buttons to push. Fortunately, Dara had had a lifetime filled with dodging intrusive personal questions from celebrity hounds and hunters and paparazzi. She smiled. “We each have a job to do, and right now, I want to go over the medical equipment with Sergeant Jones. So if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Of course,” Catherine said, falling into step beside her as Dara headed for the helicopter. “By the way, how much do you know about Sawyer’s history?”

  “I’m sorry?” Dara found the question so unexpected, she slowed without thinking and stared at the reporter.

  “Well, I assume there’s a story there, don’t you? There’s always a story.” Catherine smiled. “I’m certain you have a very interesting one. For instance, how do your parents feel about you doing the work you do? I would have expected you to take a position in one of your mother’s philanthropic organizations. Or there must be a seat with your name on it in your father’s boardroom.”

  “I make my own choices,” Dara said, the shards of glass lining her throat threatening to turn her sentences into flying razor blades, “and I didn’t ask my parents’ permission.”

  “Well, see? There’s a good story right there then too, isn’t there. Let’s talk again when it’s not so noisy. Somewhere private,” Catherine said, that honey-soft, irritatingly seductive tone slipping back into her voice again. “I’ll buy you dinner and we can get to know one another.”

  Dara almost laughed. Only years of hiding her feelings allowed her to keep her thoughts to herself. As if she would ever be attracted to Catherine Winchell. Oh, she was beautiful, and undoubtedly intelligent and accomplished. But every single thing about her reminded Dara of her mother and the social set she’d fought to escape from her entire life. A quick image of Sawyer leaning against the counter in the coffee room where she’d first met her flashed through Dara’s mind. Now, there was an attractive woman. Confident, capable, charming in an altogether unpolished way. That was a woman who could hold her attention. “I’m sure we’ll be far too busy for the foreseeable future for any kind of conversation, let alone dinner. Besides, I have nothing to contribute to your story. I’m not the least bit interesting.”

  Catherine laughed and shook her head. “Oh, you clearly have no idea how interesting you are. But as I said, we’ll wait until we have some privacy for that.” She glanced toward the helicopter and then toward the rear of the hangar where Sawyer was just visible talking to the crew of the second helicopter. “In the meantime, we’ll see what kind of story Colonel Kincaid has to offer.”

  Dara swallowed a dozen retorts, ranging from leave her alone to not on your life. Sawyer could handle herself. Winchell was just being a reporter—always on the hunt for a juicy story, a scoop, the next big ratings sweep. One of the big reasons Dara had wanted out of the privileged life to which she’d been born was the constant scrutiny, by peers, by family, by strangers—if she could have been anonymous, she would have been. But despite turning her back on her father after he’d so easily turned his back on them, she couldn’t fault her mother for clinging to what remained of her life in a world where a woman was often judged by the status her husband provided, and most important of all, she couldn’t hurt her grandmother by walking away from her family. All she could do was insist on being her own woman, no matter the cost.

  With a tremendous effort of will, Dara turned her back so as not to see Catherine Winchell making her way over to Sawyer, and climbed into the open body of the helicopter.

  “Sorry,” she said to Jones. “I got held up. Want to give me that rundown now?”

  “Sure thing!” Jones eagerly pointed out the surprising amount of state-of-the-art medical equipment on board for in-flight patient care—oxygen, defibrillators, refrigerated plasma and blood, instrument packs, intubation capability, even a battery-powered ventilator.

  “You can do a full-scale resuscitation here if you need to,” she said.

  “Totally,” he said with unmistakable pride. “Most of the time, we’re just stabilizing blood volume and cardiac output. The blood makes a huge difference there. But sometimes, we’re full-out resuscitating by the time we get to the frontline hospital.”

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “I’ve been in the Guard six years, and active for the last eighteen months. I just came back from a year’s deployment.” He looked out the open bay doors in the direction of the second helicopter where Sawyer stood with the crew. “I was with Colonel Kincaid in Africa.”

  “I imagine it’s good to be back,” Da
ra said, not quite knowing how to talk about something she’d never experienced and suspected could only be understood firsthand. Aware of Sawyer only a short distance away, preparing to lead a dangerous mission with lives at stake, she wanted to know what Sawyer had faced. What that had cost her.

  “Most of the time,” he said, a musing note in his voice as if he wasn’t quite sure. Then his eyes brightened. “It feels good to set up on a mission again, though. Especially with the colonel.”

  Dara smiled at the obvious hero worship in his voice. “I know what you mean. It’s what you’re trained for, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said, suddenly shy again.

  “Ten minutes, Jonesie. Button her up,” a female soldier with a tablet in her hand, squint lines radiating from her cool gray eyes, and a thousand-yard stare called from the hangar floor.

  “On it, Chief,” Jones snapped.

  Dara had barely finished her quick review of the equipment when Sawyer reappeared in the open hatch with the same woman. “Dara, this is Crew Chief Norton. She’ll be in command of the aircraft during our flight.”

  “Dara Sims,” Dara said.

  Norton nodded to Dara’s greeting and climbed in, talking into her radio as she ran through the preflight check. “You and Ms. Winchell will take the seats next to Sergeant Jones. Go ahead and strap in.”

  “Right,” Dara said, picking the spot on Jones’s left.

  Sawyer turned to the reporter. “Ms. Winchell, ready to go?”

  “Can’t wait.” Catherine Winchell put a hand on Sawyer’s arm and climbed into the helicopter.

  Sawyer settled opposite Dara, Jones, and Catherine, next to Brianna Norton. The rotor noise picked up and Dara sensed forward movement. Her stomach flipped at the realization she was about to embark on a lifesaving—potentially life-threatening—mission. She’d flown medevac shifts before, but only short distance and under optimal conditions. This was worlds different. Across from her, Sawyer looked relaxed and still totally focused.

  Sawyer pointed to the headphones she took down from a hook behind her head, gesturing for everyone to do the same. Her voice came through Dara’s headphone.

  “Everyone, make sure you’re buckled in. We should have a pretty smooth ride going down.” She smiled. “If you have to vomit, you won’t be the first. Try to miss your boots.”

  Dara grinned and mouthed, like hell when she caught Sawyer’s eye.

  Sawyer looked at Norton. “Chief? Are we clear to dust off?”

  “That’s a go, Colonel.”

  Her gaze on Dara, Sawyer touched her mic. “This is 1-4 Charlie Tango 1. Commence liftoff, over.”

  “Roger, 1-4. Charlie Tango 1, over.”

  “Roger, 1-4. Charlie Tango 2, over.”

  The nose of the helicopter tilted, the engine roared, and adrenaline pounded through Dara’s bloodstream until her head swirled. She kept her focus on Sawyer, the calm at the center of the storm.

  Chapter Twelve

  Airborne over the Atlantic Ocean

  Visibility: Amber Illum, Moon angle 25 degrees, illumination 35%

  The crew chief’s voice came over the com. “We’re coming in over the Atlantic side of the Keys. Weather boys report winds have picked up and we’ll have some turbulence. Nothing the pilots can’t handle.”

  As if on cue, the Black Hawk bucked and swayed, forcing everyone to hang suspended in their webbing by their shoulder harnesses for a few long seconds.

  When the turbulence quieted, Sawyer clicked her mic to Dara’s channel. “How are you doing?”

  Dara fumbled for a moment, then mimicking Sawyer’s movements, activated her headset. “Hell of a ride.”

  Sawyer smiled. She was tough all right. “Ought to touch down in ten. Just do what the chief tells you, when she tells you, and you’ll be fine.”

  “No problem. Where are we landing?”

  “The LZ is in the parking lot closest to the ER to make transfer easier.”

  “Good. It’s raining, isn’t it?”

  “Looks like it, but that’s mostly just atmospheric stuff freezing and melting on the airframe. Fog is coming in, though. We won’t see much from the ground.” Sawyer didn’t see any point in mentioning the fog was likely to stick around and get denser, and the longer they stayed, the tougher the flying conditions would get. Her job was worrying about that—Dara’s was helping to get the patients out as quickly as possible. “You’ll triage with the hospital ERT leader once we land and coordinate transfer with our corpsmen.”

  Dara nodded. “Got it.”

  They’d already reviewed all this and Dara knew her job, but Sawyer figured the diversion would make the bumpy ride more tolerable. The bird jumped up a dozen feet and dropped just as fast. Outside, the night was black and getting blacker. No lights below for the pilots to fix on, and even with night goggles and infrared, there’d be nothing to see. She’d made plenty of runs in red illum conditions in Africa, where the moon provided no ambient light, the desert below was a void, and the pilots had to fly without infrared to avoid turning the bird into a target to enemy on the ground. Being confined in the endless dark was disorienting and quickly could become panic-inducing, even when the chance of being fired on was slim. Never zero, though; never safe. She’d learned to trust the pilots and close her eyes, escaping to a place of calm inevitability. Tonight she’d kept her eyes open, aware Dara was watching. She’d never detected a second’s panic in Dara’s eyes. She would have made a good soldier.

  “Enjoy the rest of the ride.” Sawyer grinned when she saw Dara laugh. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Catherine Winchell intently following their silent exchange, obviously trying to figure out what she was missing. Winchell, to her credit, was holding up. She had a job to do too and was probably good at it. Too bad part of that job went beyond simple reporting, and that was the part Sawyer wanted to avoid. She intended to follow orders to the letter where the reporter was concerned, and not one syllable beyond that. She’d already gotten a taste of just how easily Catherine Winchell inserted herself into any situation and would undoubtedly charm any number of soldiers into providing her with sound bites before this operation was over. Sawyer didn’t plan on sacrificing her privacy for politics. She’d keep Catherine informed as to mission status and update her on evacuation bulletins, storm path, or any other intel that impacted civilian safety, but beyond that she’d have nothing to say.

  The bird dropped altitude steadily, and the crew chief came over the com again. “Three minutes to landing. Maintain your position until cleared to disembark.”

  The pilots set the Black Hawk down on the parking lot with the barest of thuds, and the in-flight vibrations rapidly diminished. Unlike in many other helicopters, the engine and rotor noises never varied much between idle and flight, so conversation was still limited by the continued roar even after the chief signaled them to remove their headgear and release their harnesses.

  When the chief slid open the bay doors, Sawyer gestured to Dara and Jones to go ahead, and waited for Catherine to give her a hand down.

  “Doing okay?” Sawyer asked. Despite her personal feelings about having a reporter along, Catherine was her responsibility.

  Catherine held on to her arm as they walked. “Just a little off balance. Not exactly luxury accommodations. Somehow I thought they’d be…fancier.”

  “Nope—they’re workhorses. Have been since the seventies.”

  “Combat and medevac, correct?”

  Sawyer nodded. “That’s right. Depending on the configuration and equipment, assault or recovery.”

  The second Black Hawk landed a hundred feet away, its rotors whirring, and one of their team jumped out and jogged over to join Jones and Dara. The hospital was a smallish one-story affair arranged in a T with the short arm running along one side of the parking lot. The illuminated red sign noting the emergency entrance was hazy and blurred in the thickening fog.

  “Stay with me,” Sawyer said.

  “Don’t worry,” Catherine sai
d, “I don’t intend to let you out of my sight.”

  Just inside the ER entrance, Dara and the corpsmen were met by a slender man with round, gold-rimmed spectacles, a close-cut salt-and-pepper Afro, and a worried expression.

  “I’m Josh Randall,” he said to the group, “and mighty glad to see you.”

  “How are we doing?” Dara said, shaking Randall’s hand.

  “We’ve got the five critical earmarked for you just about ready to go,” he said, “but the neurosurgeons took the spinal cord injury up to the OR right after we last talked. Too soon to tell how long they’re going to be, but at least a few hours.”

  Dara glanced at Sawyer. “I’ll review the ICU transfers with Dr. Randall and give you the order of transfer as soon as I can.”

  “All right.” Sawyer addressed the medics. “Jones, Sun Li, go with Dr. Sims.”

  “We’ve got another problem,” Randall said.

  Dara paused. “What?”

  He winced. “An MVA on the way. Two multiple trauma victims, one with a possible pelvic fracture.”

  Dara squeezed the bridge of her nose. “You didn’t close to trauma?”

  He raised his hands. “I did, but what can I do? There’s no other hospital for fifty miles, and even if the patients are stable enough to make the trip, the roads are clogged with evacuees. I couldn’t tell them not to come.”

  Dara glanced at Sawyer. “Can you evacuate them directly to the mainland?”

  “Unless one of them needs immediate OR.” Sawyer turned to the corpsman from the second helicopter, an Asian woman who stood half a head taller than Jones and had him by about forty pounds of what looked like solid muscle. “Sun Li, this has just become an official casevac mission. Get your bird ready. Take Jones.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the medic said. She and Jones jogged away.

  Randall looked from Dara to Sawyer, his expression relieved. “I’ll head up to the ICU and get the other patients ready for transfer.”