Ian exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. He allowed himself a single nod. “Status?”
The analyst swallowed. “Critical. He’s alive… but barely.”
Mike pressed both hands onto the table to steady himself.
Ian placed one firm hand on his shoulder, not as comfort, but confirmation. “He’s alive, Mike. That’s step one.”
Another alert flashed.
“Field medics are requesting immediate air extraction,” another analyst reported. “Nearest available med asset is Falcon Three-One.”
Ian’s head snapped up.
Mike’s face drained of color. “Shannon,” he breathed. “She’s the pilot.”
Ian straightened, his voice cutting clean through every other sound in the room. “Where are they flying him?”
“Nearest FOB Azzouagh Field Hospital,” the analyst replied. “Their trauma bay is minimal.”
“Not acceptable.” Ian turned sharply. “Move our people. Get London branch’s Alistair Roe and his team rolling now.”
A tech nodded furiously and began radioing.
Ian continued to give orders. “Dante can’t wait for Germany to stabilize him. If they push it, Roe can make it to the FOB in six hours. Get Hunt Montgomery and Mack Browning wheels up to Landstuhl. They need to be in Germany when Dante arrives.”
Two analysts scrambled to comply.
“Confirm Shannon’s flight path,” Ian added. “And I want live telemetry from Bravo’s medic during transport.”
Mike’s voice cracked, “Prep our jet to fly you, me, and Tim Holland directly to him.” His eyes burned with restrained panic. He turned toward the operational display, seeing his daughter’s call sign flashing on the screen. Falcon 3-1. His voice dropped to a whisper. “She’s flying into this blind.”
Ian’s eyes were grim. “She’s about to save the man she loves. She just doesn’t know it yet. Get me Roe on the line.”
The war room dimmed as the secure holo-screen flickered to life. Ian stood centered in frame, shoulders squared, face carved in cold urgency. “Connecting you through,” an analyst murmured.
The feed sharpened. Dr. Alistair Roe appeared, surgical scrubs on, hair covered, hands gloved. He was somewhere mid–procedure. London’s Chase Trauma Wing glowed sterile blue behind him.
He didn’t waste time. “Where am I going?”
Ian didn’t blink. “FOB Azzouagh. Northern Niger. Our operator Dante Olivetti is inbound in moments. We’re trying to get more information.”
Roe’s jaw flexed. “What are their surgical capabilities onsite?”
“Minimal field bay,” Ian answered. “No imaging beyond portable ultrasound and x-rays. No ventilators except transport units. No blood bank.”
Roe muttered a sharp curse. “That’s not medicine; that’s a tarp with an IV pole.” His expression tightened. “Who’s transporting him?”
Ian didn’t hesitate. “Air Force Black Hawk pilot. Our medic and their flight medic.” He blew out a breath. “Mike Johnson’s daughter, Shannon, call sign Falcon.”
Roe’s expression shifted. “Does she know we called her mom Falcon? It wasn’t official, but she saw everything. Hell, Mike did too.”
“Yeah, they made quite a pair.” Ian looked over at Mike. “One extra complication. Olivetti is her partner.”
Roe swallowed once. “She doesn’t know?”
“No,” Ian confirmed. “She has no idea it’s him.”
For half a second, Roe closed his eyes. “I’ll prep my team. We lift off as soon as the equipment is loaded.”
