Dangerous Waters

by Radclyffe

  “There’s a spinal cord injured patient who’s probably going for emergency surgery. If I’m there, I can facilitate getting him ready for transfer, and you can get us on a second evac run.”

  “Right now we don’t know there will be a second run, and I’m not leaving any of my team behind.”

  Dara wanted to plead her case but thought better of it. She’d save her energy and her arguments for when it really mattered. One way or the other, she’d see every patient out safely.

  Chapter Ten

  Landfall minus 5 days

  Homestead Air Reserve Base, Homestead, Florida

  Flight path to Key West 130.6 miles

  Flight time 52 minutes, cruising speed 150 mph

  Sawyer checked her messages during the remainder of the drive to the airbase, while Dara did the same. Despite the silence, she was acutely aware of Dara just inches away. Distractingly aware. She always knew the exact position of anyone in her radius, but she could actually register the warmth, the energy, of Dara’s body within touching distance. If she stretched out her hand…

  “Who are we meeting?” Dara asked suddenly. “Besides the pilots, I mean.”

  Relieved, feeling almost as if she’d been given a reprieve and having no idea why, Sawyer said, “Medevac missions require coordinating a number of different sections. Since the weather is against us, we’ll keep this briefing lean and fast—just the battalion support chief, battalion support medical company commander, and the task force medical platoon officer.”

  Dara stared. “Translation, please.”

  Sawyer laughed. “Ground and air transport and supplies, medical supplies, and corpsman.”

  “How many helicopters?”

  “We’ve got two HH-60 Black Hawks—fully medically ready. Two corpsmen each.”

  “Plus me.”

  “Advisory only,” Sawyer clarified. “You won’t be familiar with our equipment or protocols.”

  “No problem. I’ll be most useful working with the hospital staff anyhow.”

  “Good. That will help speed things along.” The latest weather advisories indicated rain and fog moving in ahead of the advancing hurricane, and she wasn’t sure how long they’d have before they had to get airborne or risk being stranded in the Keys. “We’ll be running this more like a casevac than a medevac.”

  “Sorry?” Dara said. “I don’t follow.”

  “Casualty evacuations usually happen under fire—on the ground and in the air. In and out as fast as possible is the best way to get everyone, including the crew, out alive. Medevacs are more often transfers from the frontline hospitals to a regional base or hospital. Much more controlled circumstances.”

  “So we’re somewhere in the middle—the hurricane won’t be shooting at us but could be deadly all the same.”

  “That’s about it,” Sawyer said, pleased by Dara’s calm tone. Dara might not be battle tested, but she was no stranger to working under fire, just of a different kind.

  The driver pulled the Humvee down an access road and stopped behind a large shedlike building made of steel and concrete, its large hangar doors closed, the only light coming from a series of square windows set high along the sides beneath the domed metal roof.

  “Thank you, Corporal,” Sawyer said. “That will be all for tonight.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sawyer climbed out and held the door for Dara.

  “Are you hungry?” Sawyer asked. “We’ve got a couple of minutes, and it may be a while before we have a chance to get anything to eat.”

  “Food is fuel,” Dara said. “I can do with a sandwich.”

  Sawyer led the way toward the hangar. “We’ll grab something from the canteen. I can’t promise anything fancy.”

  “Believe me, I’ve had many a vending room meal in my life. If it’s fresh, I’ll be happy.”

  The selection wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d expected, and Dara grabbed a turkey sandwich from the machine.

  Sawyer pulled out another sandwich and unwrapped it. “There’ll be coffee in the briefing room.”

  “It’s not really so different than the hospital,” Dara murmured, making quick work of the impromptu meal.

  “How so?” Sawyer ate with similar economy.

  Dara tossed her trash and walked beside Sawyer down an empty corridor, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous space above them. “This place is impersonal but strangely comfortable at the same time. I’ve never been here before, obviously, but I still feel at home.”

  “Sometimes it’s the rest of the world that seems strange,” Sawyer said. “Unreal, almost.”

  “I know. More than once I’ve walked outside in the morning after working all night, and the sun is shining and people are strolling along the sidewalks and cars are driving by. All completely normal. Except I feel as if I’ve stepped into an alien universe. I’d almost rather turn around and go back into the ER again and wait for the next emergency. That’s where I know exactly who I am.”

  Sawyer gave her a long look, another tendril of understanding forged between them so effortlessly all she could do was wonder at how easily they connected. She hadn’t imagined civilians could feel that way. She’d given up trying to explain why the military felt more like home than any other place she’d ever been, at least since the only place she’d called home had disappeared. The people she cared about—other soldiers—already understood, and as the years had passed, she found less and less in common with anyone outside. “I know exactly what you mean. I think that’s why a lot of us re-enlist or stay in. This world makes sense.”

  “To us,” Dara said.

  Sawyer stopped in front of the plain door with a simple placard announcing Briefing Room. She reached for the handle and paused before pushing it open. “Do you think we were made for the work, or the work makes us?”

  Dara shrugged. “I was thinking about that earlier. A little of both, I guess. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? We’re here now, and that’s where we want to be.”

  “Someday,” Sawyer murmured, “you’ll have to tell me why.”

  Dara’s eyes widened, the dark pupils making the rim of blue stand out so much brighter that tiny flecks of gold flared like specks of sunlight in their depths. “Why what?”

  “Why you do what you do, instead of so many other things you might have.”

  “Is that what you think?” Dara heard the staccato of footsteps in the distance. This brief intermission was about to disappear. “Don’t believe everything you read, Colonel.”

  “I never do.”

  “Then maybe I’ll tell you one day.”

  Sawyer nodded, her gaze raking Dara’s skin so intently her skin burned. The murmur of voices grew louder. Whatever private door they’d nearly opened would have to stay shuttered a while longer, but for the first time in her life, Dara wanted to let someone inside. Foolish, given the circumstances. More foolish still given how easily Sawyer Kincaid seduced her into wanting to expose her secrets.

  When Sawyer pushed the door open, Dara took a breath, switched gears to professional mode, and stepped inside. Her comfort level instantly climbed. They could have been back at Miami Memorial. The windowless room looked much like the ER conference room, with a large table occupying the center, metal chairs surrounding it, a blank screen at one end, and a counter along one side with a pair of stainless steel coffeepots on a dual burner beside a stack of Styrofoam cups. The coffee even smelled identical—just short of burnt but appetizing all the same. Pavlov’s dogs, all of them.

  “Want to chance the coffee?” Sawyer said, already headed that way.

  “Why not,” Dara replied, smiling to herself. Yep, just like home.

  Sawyer poured a couple of cups and handed one to Dara.

  “Thanks,” Dara said absently, already engrossed in the large-scale map of the state spread out on the center of the table. She recognized the general outline but not the many lines, site designations marked with symbols, and time stamps at various places
along a heavy dark line connecting a series of red circles over the Atlantic Ocean. She pointed to the circles growing closer as they neared the islands. “Leo?”

  “His location as of nineteen thirty hours,” Sawyer said, pointing to the log on the bottom of the huge map. “This is the field of operation. During the briefing we’ll finalize flight routes, confirm airspace and evac routes, and make sure everyone involved agrees on the mission plan. This way we can be sure not to overlook any key elements and be prepared to make adjustments if the situation changes.”

  “It’s pretty much like running a mass casualty drill, coordinating all the moving pieces,” Dara said. “Of course, that makes sense. A big part of civilian trauma care is based on military medical advancements.”

  “We’re not so far apart,” Sawyer said, no longer surprised at how similarly they approached a problem.

  “I guess not.” Dara smiled.

  Sawyer turned as the door opened, grinning as Rambo walked in. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “Hey, Bones. Figured you’d need a hand.”

  Sawyer caught his gaze assessing Dara. “Dr. Dara Sims. Colonel Beauregard.”

  “Hello,” Dara said.

  “Ma’am.” He looked at Sawyer. “As soon as we got the evacuation orders, we relocated ten transport trucks to Homestead. It looks like you’re going to need them.”

  Sawyer asked, “You planning to ride along?”

  “Thought I’d make the run,” he said.

  She knew why he was going. The same reason she was. Conditions were not yet critical, but they soon could be. This was a mini-drill for what was likely to be a huge operation in a few days under much worse conditions. Better the snafus happened now than when hundreds of lives were at stake. “Good to have you.”

  “We’ll need the local authorities to keep civilian traffic moving or we’re going to get bogged down on the causeways.”

  “Ground command will handle that,” Sawyer said.

  Rambo nodded. “Let’s just hope Leo’s timetable doesn’t accelerate.”

  Within ten minutes, half a dozen soldiers crowded around the big table. Sawyer introduced Dara and took the lead in reviewing the mission details. Once everyone agreed on the operational details, she said, “Dr. Sims will assist in patient triage to air or ground transport at Key West Memorial Hospital. She has preliminary information on the critical patients. Dr. Sims?”

  Dara quickly filled in the officers on the medical condition of the critical care patients, adding, “We will have to review their conditions on arrival. There may be one, possibly several acute postop patients to transport by that time.”

  “Dust off at twenty-two hundred hours,” Sawyer said when Dara finished.

  As the others filed out, a female lieutenant entered with a familiar blonde by her side.

  “Colonel, the captain requested I escort Ms. Winchell. She’s with Channel 10 News.”

  “Ms. Winchell,” Sawyer said flatly, hiding her surprise. The reporter looked nearly as casually seductive in her wine-red suit, pearl-gray shirt, and low dark heels as she had in her white bikini. The amused smile hadn’t changed either. “I wasn’t aware you were here. How can I help you?”

  “Colonel Kincaid,” Catherine Winchell said in her smoky voice. “How nice. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

  Dara stiffened, a completely irrational surge of dislike taking her by surprise. Her usual habit of not prejudging people on appearances went right out the window as she watched the way the newcomer’s gaze traveled over Sawyer, like Sawyer was a tasty offering at a buffet. She could feel her teeth grinding.

  “My apologies,” Catherine said, sounding not the least bit sorry. “I didn’t want to miss you, and your media liaison was most accommodating in allowing me to intercept you before you got official word.”

  “Official word of what?” Sawyer asked. She knew but would have to see the order before she’d comply. She’d never been a fan of noncombatants on missions outside the line, and this operation was beginning to look like one.

  “The governor feels that the more up to date the coverage of developing events, the safer the public will be. I’ll be accompanying you to report on the evacuation efforts and storm conditions.” She glanced at Dara and held out her hand. “We haven’t met.”

  “Dara Sims,” Dara said. “I’m with the medical team.”

  “Sims.” Catherine smiled. “I thought you looked familiar.” Just as quickly, her smile faded and she returned to Sawyer. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Colonel.”

  “I’ll assign you an aide who will escort you during the mission.”

  “Thank you,” Catherine said, “but you do understand I’ll need access to the person in charge, which, as I understand it, is you.”

  Sawyer had plenty of practice keeping her feelings to herself, but she needed all her effort not to growl. “Lieutenant, see that Ms. Winchell is properly outfitted and escort her to the flight deck.”

  The lieutenant saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

  When the door closed behind them, Dara said, “Friend of yours?”

  “No,” Sawyer said. “Recent acquaintance. Come on. I’ll get you a flight suit.”

  Dara followed, secretly pleased Sawyer hadn’t sent her off with an escort too. And that she had quickly dispatched Catherine Winchell—even if she doubted they’d seen the last of her.

  8:45 p.m.

  NHC Storm Advisory

  Hurricane Leo’s storm track has shifted 15 degrees, WNW, at 15 mph. Winds at 160 mph. Projections include possible landfall in south Florida in four days. Storm center 120 miles in diameter, storm surge estimated at 15 feet in the Florida Keys.

  9:48 p.m.

  National Hurricane Center Atlantic Ops

  “Stan,” the communications chief called from across the storm control center, “I’ve got a call for you.”

  “Take a message.” Stan spread his legs and planted his hands on his hips, staring at the images of Leo that filled the big screen nearly from side to side. The worrisome fact was the damn image was to scale—Leo was so big he dwarfed everything within three hundred miles. The eastern Caribbean islands in his path looked like pebbles tossed into the bottom of an enormous swimming pool. Insubstantial and inconsequential. Only the numbers told the true story: Barbuda, population 100,000; Antigua, population 11,000; St. Martin, population 40,000; Puerto Rico, population 3 million; Florida Keys, population 73,000.

  “Stan, it’s the governor’s office.”

  “Tell them I’ll get back—”

  “It’s the governor on the line.”

  Stan sighed. “Right.” He crossed the room and took the phone. “Yes, sir. Stan Oliver here.”

  “What does this latest advisory mean for Florida, Stan?” Governor Phil Valez asked.

  “I wish I could tell you that for sure, sir.” Stan turned to watch the live feed of the swirling storm mass. “At this point, our predictions are just that—every hour the accuracy increases, but we’re still a long way from knowing where he’s going.”

  “Time is one thing we don’t have,” Valez said. “My highway people tell me we’d need four days minimum to evacuate south Florida, and that’s assuming best case scenario and people actually leave when we give the orders.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stan said.

  “Well? What do I tell the citizens?”

  “We’re sure about the Keys—they’re going to get wind and major storm surge.”

  “What about the coasts?”

  “He’s picking up speed.” Stan watched Leo’s huge center moving westward, pictured the trajectories the major storm models predicted—all with substantial error bars—and listened to the churning in his midsection. “Everyone in the low-lying coastal areas along the west coast should head for high ground.”

  Valez cursed under his breath. “Right. Thank you. Keep me informed.”

  The governor hung up and Stan rubbed his gut. He needed two more days to be sure of wh
at the bad feeling meant, and he didn’t have them.

  Chapter Eleven

  Landfall minus 4 days

  Flight deck, Homestead Air Reserve Base

  “Sergeant Jones,” Sawyer said, addressing a young soldier with close-cut red hair, bright blue eyes, freckles, and a round boyish face that made him look about fifteen, “this is Dr. Dara Sims. She heads ERT at Miami Memorial. She’ll be riding along.”

  “Ma’am,” he said seriously, making Dara feel a decade older, and she already felt at least forty after the last couple of days.

  “Jones is the corpsman who’ll be flying with us,” Sawyer went on. “Ordinarily we’d have two medics on board if we were flying casevac, but with medevac, in order to free up a bit more room for more patients, we’ll fly with a smaller crew. Besides the pilots, there’ll just be you, me, Jones, and Sergeant Brianna Norton, the crew chief. She’s responsible for everything about the aircraft except the actual flying.”

  From behind them, a cultured, smoky voice added, “And don’t forget me.”

  Dara caught Sawyer’s expression morph through a series of changes so quickly she would have missed it if she hadn’t been staring right at her, and if she hadn’t gotten used to the subtle reflection of her moods in the set of her mouth and hard glint in her eyes. Yep—Sawyer was annoyed, aggravated, and something else—distrustful, maybe—about Winchell’s presence. Dara wished she could tell if Sawyer just disliked the idea of an embedded reporter riding along on principle or if there was something else going on. She’d have to be unconscious to miss the seductive tone in the blonde’s voice whenever she spoke to Sawyer or the way Winchell perused Sawyer’s body as if she was visually undressing her. Not subtle at all—avaricious and confident. Nope, wasn’t hard at all to figure out where Winchell’s thoughts were headed or what she’d like to do upon arrival.

  The idea of Winchell getting her hands on Sawyer curdled Dara’s stomach. Not that that was any of her business and for sure none of her concern. Still, she had a very strong urge to hang a sign around Sawyer’s neck: Not safe for consumption. Sample at your own risk.