by Radclyffe
Oh, she was good. Dara was torn between disagreeing and empathizing. Her personal feelings for Catherine’s blatant personal interest in Sawyer aside, she was familiar with Catherine’s reputation. She was an influential and respected reporter, and a popular one. And she probably had a point. As much as Dara wanted to argue, she couldn’t really, not with the theory at least. Up to a point. Yes, every person, civilian or military, deserved to be recognized for risking their lives to benefit others, but Catherine’s questions crossed the boundary from the professional to the personal, and whatever she’d discovered about Sawyer had the power to wound. Nothing else mattered to Dara.
“Catherine,” Dara said, as if she didn’t know she’d just derailed Catherine’s interview, “they’ve given us the use of the on-call rooms. 111 is right down the hall. You might want to catch some sleep.”
“I appreciate your concern.” Catherine gave Dara a long, appraising glance. “Since I know you can’t leave without me,” she said with an amused smile, “I might just take you up on it.”
“I told Randall I’d relieve him,” Dara said to Sawyer as Catherine turned and left. “Do you have time to go over the patients in the ICU now?”
“Of course.” As they walked out into the hall, Sawyer murmured, “Thanks for the save.”
“Anytime,” Dara said.
Sawyer’s grin was the single bright spot in Dara’s long night.
Sawyer followed Dara from bed to bed in the ICU, making mental notes as Dara gave her a thumbnail sketch of each of the patients they’d need to transport. All required monitoring, but fortunately three of the five were awake and able to communicate. The fourth was sedated and the fifth intubated. When they moved back to the desk she said, “We should be able to handle all of them with no problems. I can keep an eye on these five for the length of the flight, which will leave you with the postop patient.”
“That’s a lot for you,” Dara said.
The ICU nurse came over as they talked and held out a hand to Sawyer. “Colonel, Lieutenant Phyllis Zywicki. Navy reserve. I can go with you if you need me.”
Sawyer glanced at Dara. “We have room.”
“I thought Dr. Randall said you were due to go home,” Dara said.
Phyllis shrugged. “I was planning to go down to the ER and lend a hand anyhow. I’ve got no family to worry about down here, and my roommate already left with her cat and my parrot. You’d be doing me a favor with the lift.”
“Then we can use you,” Dara said. “Thanks.”
Sawyer said, “Who do we have to clear it with?”
Phyllis waved a hand. “Honestly, probably no one. I’m sure Dr. Randall will agree, and since the evacuation orders, he seems to be making all the decisions. I think the other members of the ERT are all administrators.” She laughed a little wryly. “And I think they’ve all left town.”
Sawyer nodded. “We’ll talk to Randall.”
“Great,” Phyllis said. “You’ve got a couple of hours before the postop patient comes back. Might be a good idea to get some rack time.”
Sawyer said, “Up to Dr. Sims.”
“Are you okay with that, Phyllis?” Dara said.
“Totally. Everyone here is stable and you’ll just be down the hall. You’ll both be pulling the heavy load once we’re airborne. Go while it’s quiet.”
Dara glanced at Sawyer. “Can’t argue the logic.”
Nodding, Sawyer followed Dara out into the hall. “110?”
“Unless you want to share with Catherine,” Dara said dryly.
Sawyer snorted. “I’ll pass.”
Chuckling, Dara entered 110 and paused in the doorway of a typical on-call room—eight by ten, tile floors, nondescript furniture, plain narrow bed. In this case, bunk beds. Efficient use of space, and not uncommon if not particularly comfortable. Comfort and on-call were not generally associated states. “Top or bottom?”
Sawyer gave her a look and Dara rolled her eyes.
Grinning, Sawyer said, “I’m good with the top.”
Of course you are. Dara carefully didn’t look at Sawyer as Sawyer vaulted past her onto the top bunk. Appreciating the fluid way she moved, the absolute confidence in her every step, the muscular silhouette of her form passing through the sliver of light in the dark room—no, not thoughts she should entertain. That way lay dragons, and she had enough to worry about. She sat on the bottom bunk and kicked off the boots she’d been given along with the flight suit. It had been a long time since she’d doubled in an on-call room with anyone, but somehow, with Sawyer, sharing the small space felt perfectly natural. Neither of them had bothered to turn on a light, and a bar of gold sneaking through the crack beneath the door was the only illumination. She stretched out and stared at the underside of the upper bunk. Sawyer didn’t move. Didn’t turn over, didn’t make any sound at all. Dara wondered if she was asleep already, or if she was staring into the dark. Finally, she had to know.
“Are you okay?”
For a long moment, Sawyer didn’t answer. “Yes. I’m used to not getting much in the way of sleep.”
“Same here,” Dara said, although that wasn’t what she’d meant, and she knew Sawyer knew it. “I was thinking more about Catherine Winchell. She seems awfully interested in you.”
Sawyer hesitated. She could shut down the conversation with a word or two. If she did, she’d be sending a signal, closing a door, drawing a line—a line she drew with ease and regularity with everyone in her life.
“Sorry,” Dara said after the pause drew on. “None of my business.”
“Reporters are always digging for a story,” Sawyer said quickly, feeling her way along the unfamiliar terrain. This time the silence hadn’t fit as comfortably as it always had before. Once, silence had protected her. Now the looming distance between them left her feeling as if she was about to go into combat unarmored and alone. If she wanted to hold on to the threads that connected her to Dara, she’d have to weave some of them together herself. “We bumped into each other completely by accident in a hotel I was staying in right before I got recalled from leave for Leo.”
“You’re kidding. Before all this started?”
“About the same time.”
“Are you sure she wasn’t stalking you?”
Sawyer laughed. “Positive. I’d have noticed. I’m always aware of anyone in my vicinity, particularly on my six.”
“At your back, right?” Dara said.
“Right, sorry.”
“Do you come with any kind of glossary or code book I could study up on?”
Sawyer grinned. “I could probably dig you up a manual of some kind.”
“That would be appreciated. So you were saying, you met Catherine, and then she suddenly appears embedded—that’s the right word, right?”
“Correct.”
“Embedded in your command.” Dara huffed. “Wow, tell me that’s a coincidence.”
“What else would it be?”
Dara groaned. “You can’t see me, but I’m head-smacking down here.”
Sawyer frowned. What was she missing? Dara sounded—irritated. “Why?”
“Really, you can’t see it? She’s, um, interested in you?”
“Oh. Well, I gathered that. She’s a reporter, and she wants a story, and she’s starting with me. When she doesn’t get anywhere, she’ll move on.”
“It’s not just the story, you get that, right?” Dara kicked the underside of Sawyer’s springs. “She’d like to get a little more personal with you.”
“She did suggest something like that,” Sawyer said, beginning to follow the direction things were going and enjoying the by-play, “but I already declined.”
Sawyer could hear Dara sitting up on the bunk beneath her.
“You’re kidding.”
The edge in Dara’s voice made Sawyer smile again. Dara was also repeating herself, and she never did that. Concise, certain, sure of every word. “Nope.”
“How many times did you run into her?”
“And in that period of time she made a move?” Dara’s voice rose.
Sawyer rolled over and leaned her chin in her hand. “She’s very focused.”
Dara snorted. “Well, there’s a word for it.”
“Anyhow,” Sawyer said, “I think her interests are professional at the moment.”
“I hope you don’t mind I barged in.”
Dara didn’t sound exactly apologetic, but she did sound a little unsure again. As if possibly she had been interrupting.
“I’m glad you did.” Sawyer came to another crossroads. She liked talking in the dark like this, imagining the expression on Dara’s face, feeling the buzz of pleasure at the heat in Dara’s voice when Catherine’s name came up. If she went any further down this road, though, she would be outside the wire, beyond the zone of safety, with no one to watch her six. “Catherine was getting a little too personal, even if she was doing it for a story.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Dara said softly.
“I know,” Sawyer said. “But I want to.”
Chapter Fourteen
Hurricane Andrew, landfall minus 47 minutes
August 24, 1992, 4:05 a.m.
Naranja Lakes, South Dade County, Florida
“Jim,” her mother said frantically. “We can’t stay here. People are leaving, almost everyone’s gone.”
Sawyer’s mom held her baby sister in her arms, jiggling her to soothe her fretting. Her little brother was only four, but old enough to tell something bad was happening. He clung to her dad’s leg, his thumb in his mouth.
The walls of the trailer shook and screeched with a tin-can rattle that sounded like people pounding on the outside with hammers. The howling noise was the wind, her dad said, but Sawyer had never heard the wind roar like the motor on her dad’s motorcycle—even louder every minute too. She tried to look out the windows, but the rain was so heavy the sheets of water, like the plastic they tacked up around the window frames in the winter to keep out the cold, made everything blurry.
Being the oldest, Sawyer watched and waited for what she should do, jiggling from one foot to the other.
Her father tugged at his hair, and that must have hurt because he made a face like it did. “There’s not enough gas in the truck to get very far, Kimmie.” He looked like he was mad, but he didn’t sound mad. He sounded…kind of scared, which was scary, because he wasn’t supposed to be afraid of anything. Her mom seemed scared too.
“The radio said the hurricane’s coming this way,” her mom said, “and now the power’s out, and I can’t get any kind of signal.”
Sawyer’s heart pounded. She knew what a hurricane was, kinda like a thunderstorm only a lot bigger. She wasn’t sure why everyone was so excited about this one. Andrew, its name was. She thought that was funny, how they named storms. Why would they do that? She’d have to ask when her mother and father weren’t so busy.
“Oh my God, Jim, look,” her mother said, pointing. “The water’s coming underneath the door.”
“Get dry clothes, food, and water together. I’ll start the truck.”
“No,” her mother said, “don’t go out alone.”
Her father crouched down next to Sawyer. “I’ll be right back. You help your mother with the little ones.”
“Can I come with you?” Sawyer said. Her dad might need help too.
“You stay inside.” He kissed her forehead. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
But he’d been wrong.
“We lived in a mobile home park in Dade County,” Sawyer said. “We didn’t evacuate—hardly anyone did. No one appreciated how big Andrew was going to be, and he came ashore pretty much right on top of us.”
“How old were you?”
“Seven.” Sawyer’s throat was dry and she swallowed. “We tried to leave, but it was already too late. My dad…he went out to get the truck. My mom and my sister and brother and me stayed behind. Then the trailer started blowing apart.”
“God.” Dara’s sharp intake of breath sounded loud in the still room. Like the rush of wind through blown-out windows.
Sawyer shivered. “We waited half an hour, but the water was getting higher and higher inside the trailer. The door gave way, and mud and branches gushed in. We all climbed on the couch. Then Andrew made landfall and the wind took everything. We were lucky—the trailer didn’t blow away, and a lot of them did. The roof came off, and two of the walls went. A lot of the furniture too, but my mom got us all under mattresses in the bedroom.”
August 24, 1992, 6:15 a.m.
The screaming wind went on forever, clawing trees out of the earth and sending them thundering through the air, turning signposts and metal siding torn from trailers into lethal sails, skittering along on the floodwaters and slashing through fences and foliage. Water soaked through the mattress where her mom huddled over the little ones, Sawyer pressed tight against her side, their arms linked.
She must’ve fallen asleep, and when she woke, the water was up to her knees. She shook her mother. “Mom, Mom, we have to move. We have to get out of the water. There’s things in the water.” She’d seen them swimming and slithering.
“There’s nowhere to go, baby,” her mother said, trying not to sound scared.
Neither of them mentioned her dad. He’d come back. Soon.
“We can get on the roof,” Sawyer said, pointing to the remaining portion that hadn’t blown away. “You can use the bookcase to climb up on maybe, and I can hand you the kids.”
“All right, yes.”
“You have to go first,” Sawyer said, even though she didn’t want to stay behind. She couldn’t climb up all by herself, but she could help with the little ones and her mom could pull her up.
When they reached the roof, they were in the middle of a muddy swirling ocean of junk and other things Sawyer didn’t want to look at. The truck was underwater. Only the very top showed, and she couldn’t see her dad.
“Our trailer was pushed off its foundation and half buried in mud and debris. We were marooned for two days. We heard helicopters, but there were so many people stranded everywhere, and so many roads were blocked the first responders had trouble getting through. They had helicopters, but not as many as we have now, and not as many SAR teams. The ones that were flying search and rescue didn’t get close enough to see us.”
“That’s so horrible.”
“I don’t know why,” Sawyer said, “but I thought if we could fly a flag they would know we were there.” She thought of how her mother had climbed down into the trailer and pawed through the debris that was all that remained of their possessions. “My mom slogged through storm water up to her chest looking for something to use and found a big white tablecloth in a plastic bin that was just floating in one corner of what used to be the kitchen—no idea how that hadn’t floated away. I was good at climbing trees, and my mother couldn’t leave the little ones in case they fell off into the water. It wasn’t that far to swim.”
“You went into the water?” Dara’s voice held horror and awe. “And you were seven?”
“Like I said,” Sawyer said, blocking out the memory of the things that floated and glided through the water, “it wasn’t very far. Then I just climbed as high as I could and tied a corner of the tablecloth to one of the branches. I didn’t want to go back into the water, and I could see my mom. So I waited, and the next time I heard a helicopter, I made sure they could see us.”
The days and weeks after that melted in her memory into one long gray stretch of fear and misery. There had been TV cameras and reporters and strangers wanting to talk to her, but mostly there had been her mother’s hollow eyes and the noise and smell of the shelters and the pervasive atmosphere of dread and desperation.
“No wonder Catherine said you were a hero! You were amazing.”
“There were plenty of other stories just like mine.” And she’d failed at the biggest job of all, hadn’t she?<
br />
“What about your father?” Dara asked softly.
“He never came back.”
Landfall minus 3.5 days, 4:10 a.m.
Key West Memorial Hospital, Room 110
Dara probably wouldn’t have slept anyway, but she couldn’t sleep after hearing Sawyer’s story. She kept seeing a young child, far too young to be the oldest in any situation, dealing with such terrible trauma and loss. Surviving all that and still risking her life to aid and defend others. Her heart hurt at the same time as it filled with wonder.
Sawyer might’ve been sleeping, but Dara didn’t think so. That preternatural stillness had settled over her again. She didn’t turn over, she didn’t shift around, she didn’t make a sound in her sleep. Dara wondered if that was some kind of learned vigilance that soldiers acquired, or if it was just Sawyer, so contained, so controlled that even in her sleep there was nothing random, nothing unintentional about her actions. Did she ever deviate from her plan, did she ever allow for the unexpected? Of course she did, she had to. She’d have to be able to respond in the midst of chaos to any new threat, any shift in the momentum of the battle. But none of that was random. That was training, precision thinking, instinct honed to the razor’s edge.
Sawyer wasn’t a machine. She was something far more intricate and powerful.
Dara let out a long breath and hoped she hadn’t been tossing and turning and possibly keeping Sawyer awake, but her blood was racing and her heart pounding. She’d been five during Andrew, and she barely remembered it. She couldn’t remember being afraid or even seeing her parents acting as if anything was wrong. Of course, her family had had every advantage and convenience available to escape the disaster. She did remember they had flown in her father’s helicopter to their summer home out of state. What had been a vacation to her, an exciting trip, had been a nightmare for thousands, and a devastating horror for so many like Sawyer. She wanted to ask Sawyer more—where they’d gone after the shelter, how they’d lived, and where the rest of her family was now, but she couldn’t bear to press her for any more details, not when the memory was so clearly still painful, still fresh. There were moments, when Sawyer had been speaking softly in the dark, Dara had felt she was reliving the events rather than just remembering them.