Adrenaline now fueled her body. She had no idea what was coming in, or what to expect, but she knew she had to be on her A-game.
Not that she ever wasn’t on her A-game. Her two years on the Hope had been her best yet and she’d risen in the ranks finally to get to this moment, being trusted with a covert operation. She had no doubt that was what it was because it must be important if their mission to aid a volcanic eruption disaster zone in Indonesia was being stalled. As she glanced around at the staff standing at attention and waiting, she saw it was all senior officers on deck, except for a couple of on-duty petty officers.
“How many minutes did they say they were out, Petty Officer?” Erica had to shout over the sound of waves. It was unusually choppy on the Arabian Sea, but it was probably due to the fact that the ship was on silent running. Only the stabilizers on the sides kept USNV Hope from tipping over. She couldn’t see Captain Dayton anywhere, but then she suspected her commanding officer was at the helm. Silent running in the middle of the Indian Ocean at night was no easy feat.
“Pardon me, Commander?” the petty officer asked.
“I asked, how many minutes out?”
“Five at the most, Commander. We’re just waiting for the signal.”
And as if on cue a flare went off the port side and, in the brief explosion of light, Erica could make out the faint outline of a submarine. The chopper lifted from the helipad and headed out in the direction of the flare.
“Two minutes out!” someone shouted. “Silent running, people, and need-to-know basis.”
Erica’s heart raced.
This was why she’d got into the Navy. This was why she wanted to serve her country. She had fought for this moment, even when she had been tormented at Annapolis about not having what it took.
Dad would’ve been proud.
And a lump formed in her throat as she thought of her father. Her dad, a forgotten hero. She was serving, and giving it her all helping wounded warriors, and being on the USNV Hope gave her that. She had earned the right to be here.
The taunts that she’d slept her way to the top, telling her she couldn’t make it, hadn’t deterred her. The nay-saying had strengthened her more. Even when her dad suffered with his PTSD and his wounds silently, he would still wear his uniform with pride, his head held high. He was her hero. Now she was a highly decorated commander and surgeon and it gave her pride. So she held her head up high.
The better she did, the more she achieved the shame of her one mistake being washed away. At least, that was what she liked to think, even if others thought she’d end up with PTSD like her father: unable to handle the pressures, her memory disgraced. Well, they had another think coming. She was stronger than they thought she was.
The chopper was returning, a stretcher dangling as it hovered. Erica raced forward, crouching low to keep her balance so the wind from the chopper’s blades wouldn’t knock her on her backside.
With help the stretcher unhooked and was lifted onto a gurney. Once they had the patient stabilized they wheeled the gurney off the deck and into triage.
It was then, in the light, she could see the officer was severely injured and, as she glanced down at him, he opened his eyes and gazed at her. His eyes were the most brilliant blue she’d ever seen.
“We’re here to get you help,” she said, trying to reassure him as they wheeled him into a trauma pod. He seemed to understand what she was saying, but his gaze was locked on her, his breath labored, panting through obvious pain.
There was a file, instead of a commanding officer, and she opened it; there was no name, no rank of the patient.
Nothing. Only that he’d had gunshot wounds to the leg three days ago and now an extensive infection.
Where had they been that they couldn’t get medical attention right away? That several gunshot wounds could lead to such an infection?
Dirty water. Maybe they were camped out in the sewers.
“What’s your name?” she asked as she shone a light into his eyes, checking his pupillary reaction. Gauging the ABCs was the first protocol in trauma assessment.
“Classified,” he said through gritted teeth. “Leg.”
Erica nodded. “We’ll take care of it.”
As another medic hooked up a central line, Erica moved to his left leg and, as she peeled away the crude dressings, he let out a string of curses. As she looked at the mangled leg, she knew this man’s days serving were over.
“We’ll have to amputate; prep an OR,” Erica said to a nurse.
“Yes, Commander.” The nurse ran out of the trauma pod.
“What?” the man demanded. “What did you say?”
“I’m very sorry.” She leaned over to meet his gaze. “Your leg is full of necrotic tissue and the infection is spreading. We have to amputate.”
“Don’t amputate.”
“I’m sorry, but I have no choice.”
“Don’t you take my leg. Don’t you dare amputate.” The threat was clear, it was meant to scare her, but she wasn’t so easily swayed. Being an officer in the Navy, a predominantly male organization, had taught her quickly that she wasn’t going to let any man have power over her. No man would intimidate her. Something she’d almost forgotten at her first post in Rhode Island.
“Don’t ever let a man intimidate you, Erica. Chances are they’re more scared of you and your abilities.”
She’d forgotten those words her father had told her.
Never again.
“I’m sorry.” She motioned to the anesthesiologist to sedate him and, as she did, he reached out and grabbed her arm, squeezing her tight. His eyes had a wild light.
“Don’t you touch me! I won’t let you.”
“Stand down!” she yelled back at him.
“Don’t take my leg.” This time he was begging; the grip on her arm eased, but he didn’t let go. “Don’t take it. Let me serve my …” His words trailed off as the sedative took effect, his eyes rolling before he was unconscious.
His passionate plea tugged at her heart. She understood him, this stranger. She’d amputated limbs before and never thought twice. She had compassion, but this was something more. In the small fragment she’d shared with the unnamed SEAL, she had understood his fear and his vulnerability. It touched her deeply and she didn’t want to have to take his leg and end his career.
If there’d been another way, she’d have done it. There wasn’t.
The damage had been done.
If he’d gotten to her sooner, the infection would have been minor, the gunshot properly cared for.
It was the hazard of covert operations.
And her patient, whoever he was, was paying the price.
“Let’s get him intubated and into the OR Stat.” The words were hard for her to say, but she shook her sympathy for him from her mind and focused on the task at hand.
At least he’d have his life.
“Petty Officer, where is my patient’s commanding officer?” Erica asked as she came out of the scrub room.
“Over there, Commander. He’s waiting for your report.” The petty officer pointed over her shoulder and Erica saw a group of uniformed men waiting.
“Thank you,” Erica said as she walked toward them.