An Arrogant Black Belt Threatens a Rookie Nurse in a Rural ER — Unaware She Was a Navy SEAL Officer
Chapter 4
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Reese knew that descent. She had felt that descent. The rotors hit her first, then the wash, then the smell: JP-5 fuel, hot metal, and that specific scorched electronic smell that only came off a Navy bird running hard.The Nighthawk flared and set down. The side door slid open before the skids had fully settled. A man in a flight suit jumped out and ran toward her, one hand up against the rotor wash. He got to within ten feet and stopped dead. Just stopped.Rain ran off the brim of his helmet into his beard. His mouth opened, closed, opened again."Commander," he said.Reese did not move.The crew chief took another step forward. His face was the face of a man who had just seen a ghost on a concrete helipad in West Virginia at 1:00 in the morning. "Commander Donovan, ma'am?"The stairwell door behind her banged open. Kessler stood there in his white coat, soaked through in three seconds. He stopped when he saw the crew chief's face.The crew chief had not looked away from Reese. The crew chief had snapped to attention in the middle of a rainstorm on a hospital helipad in the West Virginia mountains, with a wounded sailor bleeding out in the bird behind him. A Navy aircrewman was standing at attention in front of the rookie nurse Kessler had ordered to the parking lot at 6:00 a.m."Ma'am," the crew chief said, his voice cracking through the wind, "we've got Petty Officer Vega in the back, femoral. He's been asking for you the whole flight."For one full heartbeat—one—Reese stood in the rain and did nothing. Then she moved.The eight months in Holloway County General fell off her shoulders like a wet coat. The slump went out of her spine; the auburn hair plastered against her cheek stopped mattering. Reese walked past the crew chief at a pace that was not quite a run and not quite a walk—the pace of someone who knew that panic burned fuel she could not afford."Talk to me, Petty Officer," she said."Nighthawk 2-3, sir... I mean, ma'am. Chief Petty Officer Daryl Hannigan, aircrew, deployed out of Norfolk. Vega took a round through the left thigh 40 minutes ago during a training accident at the Sumter range. Live fire drill went sideways. He's our corpsman, ma'am. He's the one who taught us all how to pack a wound, and he can't pack his own." Hannigan's voice broke on the last word."Tourniquet on?" Reese said."High and tight, eight minutes after the hit. Loosened once to check distal; bleeding restarted, we retightened. He's been in and out since we lifted.""Crystalloid on board?""Two liters of saline. We didn't have whole blood; the other bird had it and got grounded by the ceiling in Roanoke.""TXA?""Yes, ma'am. One gram IV 20 minutes ago.""Good."She reached the open door of the helicopter, put her hand on the frame, and looked inside. Two men knelt on the deck. Between them, on the stretcher, Petty Officer First Class Eddie Vega lay with his eyes half-closed and his BDU pants cut away to the hip. The tourniquet was where it should be; the bandage under it was soaked black.