Later, I'm in a hospital gown that gapes in the back, my wet clothes bagged somewhere, and my body aches in places I didn't know could ache. The X-rays show no broken ribs. CT scan comes back clear—no brain bleeding, just a mild concussion. Lungs show that they’re clear—thank goodness.
Dr. Abernathy finishes wrapping the rope burn on my right thigh when my hands start shaking. Then my whole body follows, trembling so hard the exam table rattles.
"Delayed shock response." Dr. Abernathy is already moving, pulling a heated blanket from a warmer. "Perfectly normal after what you've been through."
Normal. Nearly dying when your boat explodes underneath you.
The door opens and Lange is there, blanket discarded, those gray eyes locked on me with laser focus. "What happened?"
"Shock," Dr. Abernathy says. "She's processing."
"I'm right here." The words come out through chattering teeth. "And I can hear you."
Lange moves closer. Suddenly his size fills the space—tall, broad-shouldered, taking up the room in a way that should feel threatening but doesn't. He stops at the edge of the exam table, close enough to see the concern etched in the lines around his eyes.
"You're shaking," he says quietly. "But you're going to be okay."
The certainty in his voice is almost reassuring. Almost.
"It was just an accident," I say, needing to believe it. "Equipment failure. Happens with boats."
"That wasn't equipment failure." His tone stays calm but firm. "Dr. McKay, is there anyone who might want to hurt you?"
The question hits like cold water. "What? No. Why would you think?—"
"That explosion was too clean. Too concentrated at the engine housing." His gray eyes hold mine. "I was on the beach when it happened. Saw the flash, then the blast. That's not how fuel tanks fail. That's what shaped charges or timer-triggered devices look like."
My stomach drops. He's saying someone did this. On purpose. That it wasn't bad luck or poor maintenance or a corroded fuel line.
He's saying someone tried to kill me.
The door opens again, and this time it's a woman in a Navy uniform, insignia marking her as a commander. She's maybe late forties, steel-gray hair cut short, sharp eyes that assess the room at a glance.
"Dr. McKay." She nods to me, then to Lange. "Lieutenant Commander Lange. Dr. Abernathy." Professional acknowledgment all around. "I'm Commander Cynthia Hartwell, base security chief. I need to ask you some questions."
"Can it wait?" Dr. Abernathy's voice cools slightly.
"Unfortunately, no." Hartwell's expression is sympathetic but firm. "Dr. McKay's apartment was broken into. Maintenance discovered it this morning when they went to retrieve clothes for you. We need to establish whether these incidents are connected."
Shaking gets worse. Someone was in my apartment.
"What did they take?" The question comes out steadier than I expect.
"That's what I need you to tell me." Hartwell pulls out a tablet. "Maintenance reported the place was ransacked. Your laptop appears to be missing—power cord still plugged in, no computer. But we need you to confirm what else might be gone." She pauses. "No forced entry. Either they had a key or they're skilled at picking locks."
My laptop. Months of data collection, analysis, projections about coastal erosion and base vulnerability—all stored locally because the cloud backup kept failing.
Gone.
"When?" The word snaps out harder than intended.
"Maintenance called it in around seven this morning after the explosion." Hartwell's gaze is steady, assessing. "Based on the state of things, we estimate sometime between when you left for your survey and when maintenance arrived."
A narrow window. Left just after five-thirty this morning.
Or it's just a coincidence. Random burglary, stolen laptop. Happens.
Except my boat exploded this morning.
