Ford moved up beside him, holding his own bag. “I’m coming.”
Mike didn’t argue, just handed him the manifest clipboard. He took out his phone and dialed Dante Olivetti’s secure line.
It picked up in three rings. “Sir?”
“It’s Shannon,” Mike said. “Bird went down just after dawn. Copilot’s dead. Shannon’s in surgery now.”
Dante’s breath hitched. “She… How bad?”
“She coded once already. They’re in there now. Ian flew Hunt Mongomery in from New Orleans. I’m at Reagan waiting.”
Dante didn’t answer right away.
Mike’s voice softened. “Son… I’m not calling because you worked for me. I’m calling because I know what she means to you.”
A pause. “I’m coming.”
“I figured.” Mike hung up and hit another contact.
Sam answered on the second ring. “Dad?”
“She went down.”
Everything on the other end went still.
“I want to be there,” Sam said, voice tight.
Mike nodded once, even though no one could see. “Good. I’ll make a call.”
MEDICAL CENTER ENTERPRISE – OR 3
The doors hissed shut behind Hunt Montgomery as he stepped into the operating room a second time, now scrubbed. He took it all in, noting the flustered young trauma surgeon, the surgical techs frozen mid-handoff, Lucas Hale working to slow the bleeding that had begun to hit the floor.
“You did fine,” Hunt said quietly to the young surgeon without looking at him. “Now move across.”
The young man didn’t argue.
“Vitals?” Hunt asked.
“Unstable,” Lucas replied. “BP's tanking. One lung down. Right ribs shattered. Segment four of the liver's compromised. There is a small arterial bleed, contained for now.”
A nurse helped Hunt slip into his gloves. “Pelvis?”
Lucas shook his head. “We haven’t gotten a film. But she’s presenting with deep tissue bruising and a large hematoma near the iliac crest. External palpation suggests a possible dislocation.”
Hunt leaned over her, eyes scanning the damage. “Let’s handle the bleeds. The hip waits until she’s stable.”
“Understood.”
The lights dimmed fractionally as backup power cycled into the board. Everything narrowed to blood pressure, airway control, and the faint thud of a struggling heart.
For the next hour, the room became a machine of motion. Sutures. Artery clamps. Cauterizing burns. Every second measured. Every line of dialogue cut to what mattered.
“More suction.”
“Lap pads again.”
“BP dropping, start pressors.”
