“Falcon Three-One, maintain heading two-one-zero,” her CO crackled over comms from the companion bird. “Convoy lost contact twenty minutes ago. You’re our fastest lift asset. Get that contractor to the field hospital alive. We’ll pick up his team.”
“Copy.” Shannon banked low over the ridge.
Wind slammed the helo sideways. She corrected instinctively. Behind her, boots scrambled, gear clattered, and voices were tight.
Shannon didn’t turn. She kept flying.
Keating’s voice cut through the storm inside the cabin. “He’s crashing again. Chandler, keep bagging him harder; he’s not ventilating!”
Shannon’s breath caught.
Chandler’s voice rose, rough and urgent. “Come on, hermano. Come on.”
“Line’s infiltrated. Get another line. NOW.”
Someone groaned. Low, broken. Then nothing.
The portable monitor shrieked.
Shannon swallowed, grip tightening so hard, her knuckles blanched. “Cabin, status?” she demanded, forcing her voice level.
No answer.
“Falcon—he’s in v-fib! Prepare for defibrillation,” Keating shouted. “Charging to 200!” The monitor whined as it built charge. “Clear!”
The shock cracked through the cabin. The vibration ran up the frame of the helo into Shannon’s palms. Her stomach turned. Her pulse hammered. But she flew.
A second shock fired. Another. Then compressions. Friend counted between grunts. “Twenty-one… twenty-two… come on, come on.”
Shannon kept the bird steady even as wind tore at them, even as sweat dripped from her brow into her eyes. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t.
The headset crackled. “Falcon Three-One, you’re below BINGO, if your patient is stable, you divert.”
“I’m landing at the field hospital,” Shannon cut in, harsher than she meant. “Hold airspace.”
The pad appeared through blowing sand with dim floodlights and a cluster of medics waiting. Shannon flared, set the bird down smoother than she’d ever managed in training. “Cabin clear!”
Friend and Keating were already throwing the hatch doors open, hauling the stretcher to the skid. Shannon unbuckled, swung out, her boots hitting the ground hard, and finally she saw the patient. A man. Strapped in. Bloodied. A medicbreathing for him. IVs, chest seals, pressure dressings. Bruises on bruises. Burns. Her chest twisted.
The tent flaps slammed inward as the medics barreled through, canvas whipping in the dusty wind. The air inside was heavy with antiseptic and sweat. The lights were dim, powered by a whining generator that flickered every few seconds.
Shannon jogged behind the stretcher, boots slipping in the reddish dust trampled into the dirt floor. Her pulse still hammered from the fight to keep the patient alive.
Her CO’s crew chief barked orders as they pushed the gurney toward the center cot. “Nurses! We need room!”
Three nurses were already there with tired eyes, but they froze when they saw the incoming mess. The patient was covered in blood-soaked bandages, weeping chest wounds, with an intubation tube.
The green surgeon, barely past his fellowship, met them halfway. “Oh God… put him here,” he said, voice cracking. “We need…” The monitor between Dante’s legs shrieked. “Start compressions.” He went pale at the sight of the wounds, becoming relatively useless.
Shannon opened her mouth to help, to explain what happened in flight, but then someone shouted, “JOHNSON!”
She turned and saw Ford, covered in dust, blood smeared down his sleeves. His eyes were wild and hollow.
Why is he here?She didn’t understand.
Not until her gaze snapped to the gurney again. Not until the medics rolled the patient onto the central cot and the monitors crackled awake. Not until she saw the face under the oxygen bag and dried blood.
Dante.
