Ian slowed him down and stepped in close. “I got the message when Meagan’s car was hit.”
Mike’s jaw flexed. “You were the only one who showed up that night.”
“That was because you didn’t let anyone in. I’m not letting you do this alone,” Ian said.
Mike nodded, and they left together.
GRADY RIDGE – 0746 HOURS
The trees opened like a wound with black smoke curling up from the brush line. Carter spotted it first. “There at three o’clock. Smoke. I’ll radio for fire suppression.”
Rhodes pushed forward through underbrush, eyes sweeping for fire, fuel, anything unstable. “We’ve got wreckage.”
The bird was half-buried into the side of a slope, left side crumpled, tail gone.
“Mara!” Rhodes yelled, scrambling up the ridge.
She reached the cockpit first. It was too late. Mara Esten was still strapped in. Her neck was limp in an odd angle, her eyes half shut. Gone.
Rhodes exhaled hard, jaw clenched.
Carter was already checking the other side. “Over here!”
Shannon. She was half out of the wreck, face-down in the mud, bleeding from her side. She was barely breathing.
Carter hit comms. “Command, this is SAR Team 1. We found them. One KIA. One critical. Request medevac immediately.” She gave the position.
Rhodes moved around the wreckage and dropped to her knees. “Shannon—Jesus, hold on.”
Krueger stood ten feet back in the trees. Watching. Silent.
TWENTY-THREE
The medevac Black Hawk hit the tree line fast, hovering over the crash site, downwash scattering branches and smoke. Carter and Rhodes had Shannon strapped onto the board before the basket touched dirt.
She was barely conscious. Blood soaked the left side of her flight suit. “Mara…” she tried to say.
Rhodes leaned close. “I know. Hold still, Johnson. You’re not done yet.”
As the basket lifted her into the bird, Shannon’s eyes rolled back.
FORT NOVOSEL BASE MEDICAL
She came in through the back corridor. Just steel wheels, the screech of an overstrained gurney, and a trauma team sprintingdown the hall. The young attending surgeon’s gloves were already on. He moved fast.
Her BP was crashing. Her pulse was thready. Her ribs were fractured. Her pelvis was unstable. Internal bleeding was likely. One lung was on its way to collapsing.
“Saline wide open, O-neg on the rapid infuser,” the doctor snapped. “Open a central line kit. Get her prepped for a chest tube and ab window.”
His hands shook. He made the first incision cleanly. The second, less so.
“Sir,” the scrub tech said. “You’re?—”
“Quiet!” he barked. “We’re in a hemorrhage window. If we don’t move, she dies.” He froze. The wound field was pooling.
The Army trauma surgeon, Captain Linley, barely five years out of med school, was trying to stop the internal bleed.
He couldn’t.
