He nodded at the clock.“Took a little longer than expected.We missed lunch.Want to grab something with me?”
Captain Adams, ROTC at the University of Oregon, Olympic silver medalist in track, medical school graduate from Johns Hopkins, tall and dark-haired—he had set the nursing ranks buzzing since his arrival.His attention straightened her shoulders, a faint flush warming her face, but she shook her head.She had a very iron-clad no-fraternization rule.Even for charming, tall, dark, and handsome docs.Oh, but was that temptation she had to push aside?
“No, thanks,” she said with a smile.“Have my heart set on a special meal right now.”
Her stomach rumbled, loud enough to mock her, and she prayed he hadn’t heard.Before she could slip out, the trauma bay’s alert buzzer blared, announcing an incoming critical.She snatched up her stethoscope from the sink shelf and jogged after Adams, his long stride forcing her to half-run.
Ramstein Air Base, Germany
As Osbourne rolled him off the bird at Landstuhl, Jerry had some rare moments of introspection.He knew his wound could kill him.The look in Osbourne’s eyes every time he checked his vitals belied the outward confidence the medic projected.
Even through the drugs, he could feel the dull ache in his arm with every heartbeat, with every movement of the helicopter.A chemical bitterness coated his mouth, like aspirin dissolved on the back of his throat, chasing the fog in his veins.
“Hey, Ozzy,” Jerry said, his tongue thick with morphine, “You think that DHS guy’s gonna make it?”
Osbourne nodded and unsympathetically answered.“Might need a new face.”
“I’m kinda fond of my left arm, Oz.Think I can take it home?Attached and all?”
Osbourne stared down at him, and something in Jerry’s eyes made his false grin fade.“It’s bad, Jerry.Not gonna lie.But we’re here, and we made good time.Odds are better than not.”
Jerry wondered what he would do if he lost his left arm.No matter what scenario he imagined, his career as a sniper would come to a proverbial screeching halt.His team days would be over.That was a given.
What would he do?Where would he go?Even if he passed a medical board and they let him stay in, they would want him to do something else, and the team was his home.It was the only life he knew, the only life that mattered.
Maybe he could drive a forklift or take up supply or ordinance.Or he could pack parachutes.He was already Airborne qualified, and if he reclassified as a parachute rigger, he could wear that cool-looking red baseball cap.
Probably not.Hard to pack parachutes with one arm.He would have to go.But where?He couldn’t go home, not forever anyway.
For whatever reason, he suddenly missed his mother.Throughout all the moves and permanent changes of station he experienced in his childhood, all his friends and neighbors and chaplains had changed, his schools had changed, and even the weather and landscapes had changed.The only constant in his entire childhood had been his mother and his sister, Mabel.His father, a legend among Green Berets, had either been in the field, on TDY, or serving in undisclosed locations for nearly his entire life.He barely knew the man until the day he retired.
Mom and Mabel, though.He had known them.Mom had loved him.Would he end up completely alone?Without even a wife, or a child, or anarm?
Doors banged open, and they rolled him into trauma.Osbourne never left his side.
In the trauma room, Olive yanked sterile trays from the carts with efficiency, anticipating the doctor’s needs while Adams scrubbed at the corner sink.She slotted her CAC into the computer’s card reader, logging in as the curtain parted.A bearded medic wearing dirty ACUs, whom she did not recognize, shoved the gurney through.The smell of desert and sweat filled the sterile room.With a clipped voice, he said.“Staff Sergeant McBride, Gerald A., twenty-seven years old.GSW, left biceps, brachial artery nick.Clamped in the field.Tourniquet in flight.Morphine times two.Last dose 40 mikes ago.Type O-Negative.One unit type specific onboard.”
Adams said, “We got him from here.”He looked the medic up and down.“Go get cleaned up, Lieutenant.Grab some food.We’ll find you when there’s news.Promise”
Without a word, the medic ducked out, letting them work in their familiar arena without getting in their way.
Blood stained the field dressing, but McBride was awake, jaw clenched, full chestnut beard screaming Special Forces even before she could see that he wore no patches, no identifying anything on his uniform other than a patch proclaiming his blood type.Olive stepped forward with Adams to slide him onto the bed.She slipped off a glove and brushed her bare hand over his dust-streaked forehead, giving him skin-to-skin contact.His hazel eyes, half-lidded under the heavy morphine doses, locked on hers—hard, searching.“Welcome to Landstuhl,” she said softly.“You’re in good hands.”
Adams sliced off the dressing, eyes narrowing.“Clamped for hours.It’s mush.We’ll have to graft.Tourniquet’s held, but we need the OR stat to save the arm.Fluids, cefazolin IV, prep for vascular repair.”
As Olive turned to the computer, McBride’s right hand snagged her wrist.He had a strong grip, despite the circumstances.The fingers of his hand felt burning hot.She froze, bending closer.His gaze dropped to her cross necklace that had slipped free from her scrubs, then lifted, intense.“Do you pray?”
She smiled, twisting her wrist until their hands clasped briefly.“Continually.”
He nodded, grip firm despite the drug haze clouding his eyes.“Please do that.And maybe pray for the guy that shot me.”
Wow.She had never heard such a request.Pray for your enemies?She patted his hand until he let go of her wrist.“I will.I’ll pray for you, soldier.Promise.And I’ll see you in recovery,” she said.“You’ve got this, soldier.”
She typed Adams’ orders as an orderly wheeled him out.Logging off by snatching her CAC from the reader, she headed to the scrub room, a prayer flickering for Staff Sergeant McBride, Gerald A.—Special Forces, O-negative, 27 years old, with hard eyes she suddenly wanted to know more about.
Despite his earnest request, she could not bring herself to pray for the man who shot him.
Jerry floated in a haze, the recovery room’s white walls blurring like a rifle scope lens caked with dust.His left arm throbbed under a fresh dressing, the biceps stitched tight.He fought the fog, then suddenly felt a burst of adrenaline as he recognized the fight-or-flight feeling welling up within him.He remembered the story his dad told him of clipping him in the jaw when he came out of anesthesia after his wisdom teeth surgery.
