The doctor didn’t answer.
They wheeled her into a curtained bay and started passive warming using blankets, warm IVs, and a heated saline flush. But it wasn’t enough. She wasn’t shivering. She was dying.
Above the clouds,Mike Johnsonsat rigidly in the back of the Chase Security Gulfstream, eyes locked on nothing. Ford Cox sat across from him. The two men hadn’t spoken since wheels up.
Finally, Ford said, “She’s alive.”
“For now,” Mike replied, voice like cold metal.
Ford didn’t argue. “They’re already calling it a misadventure,” he said instead. “Accidental trauma. Mental instability. Exposure from unsanctioned PT.”
Mike’s jaw flexed. “I want names.”
“You’ll get them.”
Dante walkedinto the infirmary fifteen minutes after Shannon arrived. He didn’t show ID.
The nurse already knew who he was. “She’s in Bay 4. Still unconscious. No visitors.”
He walked past the line anyway.
She was lying still under gray thermal blankets, a nasal cannula strapped over her face. A saline bag hung from a pole beside her. Her left hand twitched once.
He stayed just outside the curtain, close enough to feel responsible. He wanted to speak. Instead, he stood still and took the weight of it. All of it.
The whup-whup-whupof rotor blades cut through the cloud line like a scalpel. The security helicopter swept low over thetarmac, doors already open, rotors spooling down before the runners even kissed concrete. The Chase Security insignia wasn’t painted; it was etched, understated but unmistakable.
Tim Holland stepped out, black medical case in hand, wind shredding his coat behind him. He didn’t speak to the security detail. He walked through the Academy infirmary’s main doors like he’d been doing it for years.
By the timeDante saw him, Holland was already pulling Shannon’s chart off the wall. The lead attending doctor started to object.
Holland cut him off. “I’m Tim Holland, Clinical Facility Director, Chase Medical DC. This patient is under transfer authority from Chase Medical, initiated by Mike Johnson, COO Chase Security, confirmed by Ford Cox, deputy director, Washington Branch. Cleared by the chief of the Air Force.”
The doctor stiffened. “She’s a cadet…”
“She’s a daughter,” Holland said flatly. “And your hospital hasn’t performed core hypothermia protocols. That makes this a risk I’m not leaving in your hands.”
“You’ll have to clear it with TSgt Olivo, head of Lima Squadron.”
Silently, Dante moved closer.
Holland clocked him with a quick glance, expression unreadable. “Sergeant.”
“Mr. Holland,” Dante said evenly.
“Sergeant Olivo,” Holland returned curtly, “I’m here under direct authorization. I’m taking her.”
Dante looked at Shannon lying pale and motionless under the blanket, eyes sunken and vitals critical. “Understood.”
“She’s being flown to Chase Medical Denver, en route within the hour.”
Dante nodded once. “Have your pilot clear it with base ops.”
Holland was already moving.
Dante’s jaw flexed. He wanted to go but knew he couldn’t. He had to remain in his cover. No handshake. No thank you. No shared knowledge. Just roles.
Shannon was wheeled onto the helicopter fifteen minutes later, strapped and monitored, her breath still coming too shallowly. Oxygen mask on. Heart rate low.
