An Arrogant Black Belt Threatens a Rookie Nurse in a Rural ER — Unaware She Was a Navy SEAL Officer
Chapter 7
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"Donovan, look at me when I'm talking to you."She dried her hands on a paper towel. She turned around.She was 5'2"; he was 6'2". The doorway behind him was full of men in flight suits: Hannigan, the chief petty officer who had stood at attention in the rain, and the two crewmen behind him. None of them moved; none of them said a word. They were just there—witnesses."You just performed a procedure outside the scope of your nursing license," Kessler said. "You are going to be terminated by morning. You are going to lose your license by next week, and you are going to be charged with practicing medicine without authorization."Reese folded the paper towel. She set it on the edge of the sink."Dr. Kessler," she said. Her voice was no longer small; it was no longer tired; it was something else entirely. And Hannigan, in the doorway, closed his eyes for a moment, like a man hearing a song he had not heard in years. "You are correct that I performed a procedure outside the scope of an RN license. But then, I have a different license."Kessler's mouth opened."I have a Special Operations Combat Medic certification from the Naval Special Warfare Center. I have an active Independent Duty Corpsman qualification. I have a Tactical Combat Casualty Care instructor rating, current as of 14 months ago. The DoD recognizes those credentials in any emergency situation involving a service member. And the DoD is going to ask you a lot of questions tomorrow about why you tried to perform a thoracotomy you have not been certified to perform since 2014."Hannigan let out a slow breath."Who are you?" Kessler said.Reese did not answer him. She walked past him, out of the bathroom, down the corridor, back toward the trauma bay where Vega was still bleeding into a junctional tourniquet that she needed to monitor every six minutes.As she passed Hannigan in the doorway, she said very quietly, "How did you find me, Chief?""Ma'am," Hannigan said just as quietly, "we didn't. He did." And he tipped his chin back toward the trauma bay—toward Eddie Vega, who was unconscious now, but who had whispered her old call sign into a flight helmet 43 minutes ago when he thought he was about to die.Vera had the rapid infuser running by the time Reese came back into Trauma 2. Vega's color had started to come back: not pink—never pink, not after that much blood loss—but the gray was lifting from his cheeks, and his lips were no longer the color of slate. The junctional tourniquet held. Reese checked it, checked the dressing, checked the IV, checked the man's pupils. None of this required thought; her hands did it on a loop she had run 600 times.While they worked, her mind walked through the rest of the room: stab wound patient still in Bay 1, vitals dropping; Kessler now somewhere behind her; two crewmen in the corridor outside Trauma 2, blocking it without being told to block it; Hannigan in the bay with her, ten feet back, at parade rest. Kessler had walked off down the corridor in the direction of his office. So Kessler would have to wait.