1
GWEN
Blood pools under my gloved hands faster than suction can clear it.
"Pressure," I say, voice steady despite the chaos. "More lap pads."
The resident slaps sterile gauze into my palm. Outside this trauma bay, Joint Expeditionary Base Tidewater's hospital hums with its usual evening rhythm, but in here time compresses to heartbeats and breath sounds. My patient is a young Marine with a lacerated spleen from a training exercise gone sideways. Vitals dropping. Blood pressure crashing.
Surgery, not politics. Saving lives, not navigating medical dynasties where reputation matters more than skill. This is what I'm good at.
"Clamp," I order, isolating the bleeder. Metal clicks as I work, fingers moving with precision that comes from thousands of hours in operating rooms. Dr. Preston Randolph watches from across the table but doesn't interrupt. He knows when to let a surgeon work.
Minutes pass. The spleen comes out, bleeding controlled. Vitals stabilize. My shoulders burn from tension I didn't acknowledge while focused on keeping this kid alive.
"Nice work, Dr. Abernathy," Randolph says, stripping off his gloves. "Clean, efficient. Textbook repair."
Pride flares in my chest, immediately followed by the familiar weight of needing to prove myself. Every compliment feels like validation I'm still chasing. Every surgery becomes evidence that I deserve to be here, that the malpractice suit was wrong.
"Thank you." I step back, letting the resident close while I dictate operative notes. Post-op orders, transfusion protocols, monitoring parameters. Everything documented with the attention to detail that's become second nature.
But even as I dictate, frustration simmers. Today's case required substitutions I shouldn't have needed. We had to use an older-generation laryngoscope because the video scopes were "backordered." Had to ration chest tubes because inventory showed we had plenty, but the cabinet was half-empty. Small workarounds that didn't compromise patient care, but they're adding up.
Randolph catches me in the hallway outside the OR. "Good save in there, Abernathy."
"Thanks. Though I shouldn't have needed to improvise with substandard equipment." I pull off my surgical cap. "We're a military hospital. Critical trauma supplies shouldn't be consistently unavailable."
"Supply chain issues." He shrugs, clearly not as bothered as I am. "Happens everywhere."
Except it's been happening here for weeks. Always the same categories. Always trauma and emergency equipment—airway management, hemorrhage control, surgical tools I need when patients are dying on my table. Never routine items. Never equipment for elective procedures or outpatient care.
I've been documenting every shortage in my personal records. Dates, procedures, specific items unavailable, workarounds required, patient care impact. Old habits fromwhen every decision I made was scrutinized and questioned. CYA documentation became second nature after facing lawyers who twisted my competence into negligence.
Later, scrubs traded for civilian clothes, I pull up my tablet in the physician lounge and review the spreadsheet I've been maintaining. The data is undeniable now. Over the past month, trauma and emergency equipment has been consistently depleted across multiple categories. Not enough to create dangerous shortages—yet—but enough that surgical teams are noticing. Enough that we're adapting procedures and using alternatives.
Nurses have been complaining. Beth in the OR mentioned missing laryngoscope blades. Mike in the ER complained about chest tube shortages. Equipment I count on for emergency airways, hemorrhage control, trauma response—consistently unavailable or running low.
When I asked the nurses to check what the system showed, they pulled up inventory logs that indicated adequate stock. Someone is creating a gap between what the computer says we have and what's actually in the cabinets.
I reported it to the Chief of Surgery last week. Got the standard brush-off about clerical errors and ordering delays. Was told supply chain management would "look into it." That dismissive tone—the same one I heard when I raised concerns that later became the center of a malpractice suit.
My teeth grind. Being doubted, being told I'm overreacting or seeing problems that aren't there—it's happening again. Except this time I have documentation. This time I'm building an airtight case before escalating.
Tomorrow, I'm taking this to NCIS. Base security. Whoever investigates equipment theft on military installations. This isn't clerical error. This is deliberate, targeted depletion of trauma capabilities.
Tonight, I back everything up to cloud storage and send myself copies. Evidence needs multiple safeguards.
Tablet secured in my bag, I head for the parking lot. Base security lights cast yellow pools across asphalt. My Range Rover sits near the back, where spaces are still available when I arrived for morning rounds. The walk is longer than I'd like this late, but safer than civilian parking.
Footsteps echo behind me.
Instinct prickles at the base of my spine. I glance back, casual, like I'm just checking my surroundings. A figure moves between lights, maintaining distance but matching my pace.
Years of living in cities, of walking to hospitals in the middle of the night, taught me to trust that instinct. I pick up speed, angling toward better lighting. Keys already in hand, SUV fob ready to unlock from distance.
The footsteps quicken.
My pulse kicks. Still several car lengths away from safety. I break into a jog, jabbing the unlock button. Lights flash on my vehicle.
