Dangerous Waters

by Radclyffe

  “Good,” Dara said, as the sounds of approaching sirens grew louder. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Dara and Sawyer hurried outside, Catherine close behind, the red light on Catherine’s minicam blinking as she captured the ambulance, red lights swirling and sirens blaring, emerging from the fog like an injured beast.

  The rear doors of the ambulance flew open as soon as the vehicle careened to a stop. Two patients occupied stretchers side by side with a pair of blue uniformed paramedics crouched between them.

  The huskier of the two, a sandy-haired guy with shoulders nearly as wide as the space between the two stretchers, looked out, took in Sawyer’s uniform and Dara in a flight suit, and said, “Hey, you guys the Guard?”

  “That’s right,” Sawyer said, making room for Dara to climb in first.

  “Sweet. We just got orders to head back to Marathon and assist in their patient transfers. We’re not going to be able to take these two anywhere from here.”

  “What have you got,” Dara said, dimly aware of Catherine Winchell leaning into the ambulance with her recorder. Ignoring the distraction, she quickly scanned the two car-crash victims. Both were young, late teens or early twenties, a male and female.

  The younger of the two paramedics, a slender man with deep brown eyes to match his burnished gold skin and impossibly long lashes, said in a surprisingly deep baritone, “One-car accident—rollover. He’s the driver. Both were seat belted, but from what we could put together, the passenger”—he indicated the woman with the tilt of his chin—“had her feet or her knees braced against the dash. Bilateral femur fractures and likely compression pelvic fractures. Her blood pressure’s been all over the place.”

  “Airbags deployed?” Dara asked. If they’d been restrained and protected by airbags, the risk of head and neck, abdominal, and long bone injury was reduced by nearly fifty percent. Unfortunately, if the female had her legs up, the airbags would be much less useful.

  “That’s affirmative on the airbags,” the younger paramedic said.

  Dara crouched to make a quick assessment. The male had what was probably a forehead laceration, judging by the gauze bandage nearly soaked through with blood wrapped around his forehead. He was breathing on his own, though, and a quick glance at the monitors revealed stable vital signs. His right arm was splinted in an air cast. “I’m Dr. Sims. Can you tell me your name?”

  After a few seconds, he managed to focus on her face. His pupils were large and dark, but even and responsive when she flicked a penlight into them. “Um…where…what happened?”

  “You were in an accident. Can you tell me your name?”

  “Brad…Brad Ames. Where’s…Ellie?”

  “She’s here. We’re going to take care of you both.” Dara pulled a stethoscope from a tray above the stretcher and listened to his chest. Clear. Although disoriented and dazed, he had no apparent major injuries. Under ordinary circumstances, he’d be evaluated in the ER and, if nothing else developed, admitted for treatment of his fracture and observation. He was stable enough to be classified as a Class III trauma and could wait the hour flight time for further care.

  The girl, Ellie, was another matter. Her lungs sounded congested, possibly from direct thoracic trauma resulting in fluid buildup in her chest or potentially fatal fat emboli from the femur fractures infiltrating the lung tissue. She was at risk to crash and would need careful monitoring and immediate critical care.

  “What’s the status on fluids so far?” Dara asked.

  “They’ve each had about two liters of saline. The girl is getting tachy,” the lead paramedic said, pointing to the rising pulse readout on the portable EKG screen. “She’s gotta be losing a fair amount of blood around the fracture sites.”

  Sawyer squatted behind Dara. “We’ve got blood on the Black Hawk, but without a type and cross, she’d have to get O-neg. We’ve got plasma substitutes that ought to be enough for a quick ride back to the mainland if we get going now. Visibility is getting worse all the time.”

  Dara’s chest tightened. She heard the unspoken message. They might not all be leaving tonight, but the girl at least needed to. If she decided to transfer her immediately, and she went bad en route, the corpsmen might not be able to stabilize her. On the other hand, if the patient stayed here with the hospital evacuating, she’d need to be transferred by ground, an even longer process if complications developed. Dara considered what Sawyer had told her about battlefield casualties and their low mortality rate if evacuated immediately. This certainly fit that scenario, and this was what Sawyer’s SAR personnel were trained for.

  “Let’s get her out of here,” Dara said.

  “Might as well take him too.” Sawyer jumped down and jogged across the parking lot to the Black Hawk.

  Dara waited for Jones and Sun Li while Sawyer conferred with the Black Hawk crew chief and pilots. The two corpsmen, working together as if they’d done it a hundred times, and maybe they had, got the stretchers out of the ambulance, across the empty parking lot, and into the waiting helicopter in a matter of seconds.

  Dara followed and caught up to Sawyer. “Should we wait for the other ICU patients?”

  “We can handle six in our bird, but if Jones goes back with these two, that will leave you and me as the only medics.”

  “We can handle that,” Dara said.

  “Then let’s get this bird in the air.” Sawyer motioned to the crew chief and pilots to take them up. She backed up as the rotors increased speed and the bird lifted off, vanishing within seconds into the fog.

  Catherine suddenly appeared at her side, holding her recorder in one outstretched hand as she panned Sawyer and Dara. The only illumination came from the flickering red ER sign and the running lights on the remaining Black Hawk, casting them all in eerie shadows. “In situations like this, how do you decide who takes priority? After all, isn’t it possible that one of the other patients might not be evacuated in a timely fashion with only one helicopter remaining?”

  Dara bristled, resenting the implication she would compromise any patient’s survival under any circumstances. While she was reminding herself Catherine was asking a valid question and trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, Sawyer spoke up.

  “First responders make that kind of decision every day,” she said looking directly at Catherine and, as a result, at the camera. “We’re trained to make decisions on the battlefield or in the midst of a mass casualty situation, and that’s exactly what Dr. Sims did. That’s why our medical response during the next few days will be a joint venture.”

  She turned aside and started for the hospital. Dara wanted to follow, but Catherine thrust the recorder closer.

  “As the physician in charge—”

  “No, I’m not,” Dara said. “You heard what the colonel just said. This is a team effort. Colonel Sawyer is in command of this mission. She’s more than qualified. Out here, I’m the medical consultant. If you’ll excuse me.” She skirted around Catherine and hurried to catch up to Sawyer. She took in the set of Sawyer’s jaw and silently appreciated her restraint. “How do you keep your temper when someone is intentionally trying to instigate like that?”

  Sawyer laughed, although she didn’t sound at all amused. “I try not to be bothered by uninformed people.”

  “Oh, that’s a really nice way of saying ignorant buttheads.”

  Sawyer grinned. “Them too.”

  Dara pointed to the sign indicating the ICU down an adjacent hallway. They headed for it. “I think I’m getting to like working with you.”

  “I like your style too.”

  Dara flushed, aware the remark was not really supposed to be a compliment, but she couldn’t help but like it. Even the sound of Catherine’s boot heels hurrying to catch up to them couldn’t dampen the surge of pleasure.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Landfall minus 4 days, 12:22 a.m.

  National Hurricane Center Atlantic Ops

  Stan’s phone roused him from an uneasy s
leep. He rolled over on the cot he’d been using since he’d returned to the weather command center what felt like a month ago. He hadn’t been home since. Soon after he’d arrived and gotten a good look at what Leo was turning into, he’d put his wife on alert to call the property manager to prepare the house for the storm. She’d informed him on one of their twice daily phone calls that everything at their waterfront condo was good. They had hurricane glass and shutters on all the windows, remember? Besides, she also reminded him with the tiniest bit of heat, she’d been through this before without his help. As she was right, and perfectly capable of handling unpredictable weather like everyone else who decided to brave the Florida mosquitos, alligators, and temperamental climate for the idyllic conditions most of the year, he only suffered a few moments of guilt over leaving everything to her. He sat up, rubbed his face, and said hoarsely, “Oliver.”

  “Hey, boss,” Anjou said, sounding almost as groggy. “Got something I think you’re gonna want to see here. Leo has kicked it up a notch.”

  Stan was suddenly totally awake. “Not unexpected. The water’s warm everywhere and the surface winds are quiet enough that he can take his time collecting a little more juice.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s collected a lot more juice. And there’s something else.”

  Now Stan’s chest tightened. “What?”

  “He’s changing course.”

  Stan was on his feet. This was why he never went home when a hurricane was blowing in. “On my way.”

  12:58 a.m.

  Key West Memorial Hospital

  “What’s the update from neurosurg?” Dara asked as Randall hung up the phone. From her perch on a stool behind the semicircular desk in the ICU, she could watch the nurse and PA moving between the five patients in the row of beds along the opposite wall. She’d been there for the last hour, feeling a little like she was back in her residency again—sitting up half the night waiting for lab results or a bed to open or a patient to declare which way they were going to fly, down the tubes or over the hill to recovery. She’d been an attending for five years, and though she spent many a night without sleep, she hadn’t been this close to the ground in a long time. As tired as she was, the charge of being right on the front lines was energizing. She could see why someone like Sawyer, and corpsmen like Jones, would want to stay in the thick of that action. She would too in their place, except for the bombs and the bullets. War had never seemed as immediate, or as cruel, as it had since meeting Sawyer. War had become personal, and the thought was frightening. With a deep breath and a silent reminder to keep focused on the job, she added, “ETA?”

  Randall grimaced. “They say two more hours before they’re done. They had to bone graft the C-spine to stabilize it.”

  “Two hours probably means three minimum.” Dara scanned the five other patients in the intensive care unit. One was an elderly postoperative ortho patient on a ventilator. Luckily, she was cardiovascularly stable. The only reason the woman still needed respiratory assistance was resolving postoperative pneumonia. Still, she was too critical to send in an ambulance that might get stuck in a backlog of traffic. One big reason the Guard had sent helicopters to both Key West Memorial Hospital and Marathon was the lack of alternate ground routes north. The Keys were like a chain of beads, with only one major highway and a series of bridges connecting them to each other and the mainland. With hundreds, probably thousands of cars heading toward south Florida, the congestion was bound to bring traffic to a standstill in places. She didn’t even want to think about what might happen if those cars were still on the bridges and causeways when the hurricane arrived. One thing was for certain. They couldn’t have ambulances on the road with critical care patients trapped inside when Leo hit. They’d have to wait for the neurosurgeons to finish and then move all the remaining ICU patients on the Black Hawk.

  “We’ll need to hold him here for at least an hour postop before we attempt to transfer,” Dara said, keeping her misgivings to herself. Randall wasn’t to blame for the delay. “So we’re looking at close to five a.m.” She sighed. “Maybe we’ll have some light by then at least.”

  Randall, his face ashen with fatigue and his eyes morphing from blurry to barely focused, nodded. “I’d tell you to go now, but we can’t risk putting this fresh postop in an ambulance and we can’t rush him out of here. If he bleeds around the bone grafts, he could end up a quad.”

  “Don’t worry. We won’t leave here until he’s stable.” Dara eyed Randall. “How long have you been up?”

  For a moment, he looked confused, as if he couldn’t quite decipher her question. “Oh. Uh—since the day we got word to evacuate. I was on call the night before and just never went home.”

  “Why don’t you go get some sleep. Do you have someone who can cover in here for you?”

  He winced. “Most of our staff have been here as long as me. We’ve been trying to rotate them home as soon as the patients in their sections have been transferred so they can take care of their families.” He gestured to the two ICU staff looking after the five patients. “Ordinarily there would be at least four nurses and/or PAs in here. Jeff and Phyllis volunteered to stay until we’re clear up here, and then they’re both slated to go home. They’re on their fourth back-to-back shift already.”

  “Why don’t I cover here in case they need backup, and you can grab a couple hours. We could be in for a long wait, and you’ve still got the rest of the hospital to worry about.”

  “What about you?” he said.

  “I will if I can, but I’m okay for now.”

  “Thanks. I’ll take you up on it, then. I can wait until you make a coffee run. You’re going to need it. If you and the rest of your team get a break, rooms 110 and 111 are free to crash in. 110 has bunks, so you ought to have enough room.”

  “Thanks.” Dara got up to hunt for Sawyer. The last she’d seen her, she’d been on her way outside to brief the Black Hawk crew. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  “I’ll be here.” He dropped into a chair in front of the monitors as Phyllis, the ICU nurse, came over to ask him a question.

  Coffee first. Dara headed for the conference room that doubled as a break room around the corner from the intensive care unit. The door was open, and as she rounded the corner, she heard voices. Catherine and Sawyer. If she hadn’t heard the question quite so clearly, she wouldn’t have stopped just before she reached the doorway.

  “So how does it feel,” Catherine Winchell asked, “facing the kind of hurricane that almost destroyed your whole family?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Really, Colonel,” Catherine said, her voice teasingly reproachful, “did you think my research assistant couldn’t pull up those stories in a matter of minutes?”

  “I was a kid. And I have nothing to say.”

  Sawyer’s tone held a raw edge Dara hadn’t heard before, but she recognized barely contained fury and something else. Pain. She’d heard it in the voices of those who’d lost patients, lost loved ones, lost the battle with death on so many fronts. Whatever memories Catherine was determined to reawaken, they were painful ones.

  Heart pounding, she stepped inside, propelled by an overwhelming urge to get between Catherine and Sawyer, as if her physical presence could somehow stop the verbal assault. Of course, Sawyer didn’t need Dara to defend her, but that didn’t make the urge any less intense.

  “Sawyer,” Dara said as she walked in, “I’ve got an update for you.”

  “What’s the word?” Sawyer grabbed the chance to deflect Catherine as Dara strode in, fire in her eyes. If Dara’d had a sword, it would’ve been raised and aimed at Catherine’s head. The image of a Valkyrie riding into battle passed through Sawyer’s mind, fierce and fearless and fearsome. She’d seen the expression on warriors she’d led into battle, but she’d rarely seen that impressive power unleashed in her defense. Oh, she’d known with absolute certainty her troops would have her back—in battle, yes, but personally?
Other than Rambo, she’d never let anyone know enough about her to realize she might need defending. And even he didn’t know where her deepest wounds and greatest vulnerabilities lay. Not his fault. She kept her secrets close and her weaknesses hidden.

  Catherine had ambushed her and, until Dara walked in, had her cornered. Dara’s appearance gave her the chance to regroup, and she needed it. Her past had no place here. Not anywhere anymore.

  Dara stopped a few inches away, pointedly ignoring Catherine. “We’re looking at three more hours at least. Most likely four.”

  Sawyer grimaced. The last weather report indicated winds continuing to increase. Cloud cover was thickening, and visibility had fallen. At the very least, they’d need a new flight route home, and if the new path took them too far outside the planned route, they might be looking at refueling along the way. But their mission was to evacuate these patients and get them to Miami safely. Whatever needed to be done, she’d have to figure out a way to do it. Letting Catherine throw her off task had to stop.

  Catherine smiled at Dara as if Dara hadn’t just interrupted her. “I was just asking Colonel Kincaid about the similarities between this situation and the one during Andrew. You must be aware of that story.” She tilted her head toward Sawyer. “She was quite famous for her heroics, even back then.”

  Sawyer’s jaw tightened. “That has nothing to do with what’s happening here.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Catherine said. “You might think that who you are, what you’ve experienced, doesn’t matter, but the people need a hero. They need to believe in their saviors.”

  “I’m neither of those things. I’m a soldier, just like the six thousand other soldiers who are down here fighting to make sure everyone is safe.”

  “Yes,” Catherine said, her honeyed voice vibrating with conviction, “and every one of those six thousand soldiers needs a face, and we can’t show them all. Yours will be the face that stands for each of them. They deserve that.”