Chapter 23
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 sprinting down 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.
The rib spreader was in place. His hands were slick.
“Clamp’s not holding…goddammit, suction!”
A nurse’s voice cracked, “She’s crashing.”
He stepped back, eyes wide. Hands floating over the table, he panicked. “I can’t, I—”
The OR tech grabbed lap pads and compressed the wound. “Doc, get your head out of your ass.”
FORT NOVOSEL TARMAC
Ian Chase made the call before he notified Mike. The Chase jet out of the New Orleans branch hadn’t even cooled on the runway before trauma surgeon Hunt Montgomery and PA Lucas Hale were through the rear ramp.
“Where is she?” Hunt asked.
“Medical Center Enterprise twenty minutes from here,” the liaison said. “Base surgeon’s already in. She just came out of the air five minutes ago.”
“She’s hemorrhaging,” Lucas said, scanning the tablet. “V/S unstable. This kid operating is in over his head. He’s not trained for pelvic trauma or mass chest collapse. It’s a level-three trauma center.”
“Why didn’t they fly her to a level one?” Hunt roared.
“She coded.”
They hit the door to OR 3 eighteen minutes later. Hunt didn’t knock. Didn’t announce. He stepped inside and saw the chaos. “You need to slow that bleeding now.”
The young surgeon looked up, stunned. “Who…?”
“Now.”
Hale moved in behind him, already suiting up. “Let’s keep her alive, ladies and gentlemen.” And just like that, control shifted.
Shannon’s vitals were falling. But they weren’t finished.
CHASE HQ
The secure line rang once. Ian picked up. “Chase.”
“Colonel Prescott,” came the voice. “Johnson’s in surgery. I’m calling as promised.”
Ian didn’t sit. “Status?”
“She coded on arrival. They’re working. Your surgeon, Dr. Montgomery, just took over with PA Lucas Hale.”
Ian nodded slowly, breath tight. “Thank you for telling me first.”
“I figured you’d move fast.”
You were right.” He hung up.
Ford was standing just inside the threshold. Ian looked him over once. “Go with him.”
Ford’s brow creased. “I’ve got him.”
“Good. He doesn’t need to be alone. I’ll be down as soon as I set some things in order.” Ian picked up his phone again and tapped a number.
REAGAN AIRPORT, PRIVATE GATE – 0852 HOURS
Mike Johnson stood at the edge of the Chase jet’s open ramp, jaw locked. The pilot was already prepping for immediate takeoff.
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.”
Twice, her heart wavered. Nine-second flatline that stretched into eternity. But they brought her back after they replaced blood volume.
They repaired the liver bleed and stabilized the pelvic bruise. Hunt stabilized each splintered rib with three layers of sutures. Her skin was pale as linen beneath the surgical lights. The hip stayed out.
By the time Hunt peeled off his gloves, his arms shook with the effort of keeping them steady. Lucas sat back on his stool, drenched in sweat. The young surgeon’s eyes looked unfocused.
“She’ll need more surgery once she stabilizes,” Hunt said quietly. “But she’s alive.”
“Hang the eighth unit,” Lucas said. “I’ll call our ortho, Hedley, for a consult when she’s in.”
“She’s lucky,” the surgical tech said.
“No,” Hunt said, “she’s alive. Luck didn’t do this.” He stepped out of the OR into the silence of the corridor and exhaled.
POST-OP RECOVERY – 1117 HOURS
The elevator doors hissed open with a tired groan. Two ICU nurses waited just outside, gurney rails locked, crash cart shadowing them like a ghost.
“She’s ready.” Hunt stepped back as Shannon’s gurney was wheeled out of OR 3.
Her blood pressure remained low, her pulse thready but holding. Tubes ran from her arms and chest. She was intubated, tube taped to her mouth, oxygen hissing gently through the vent. Her left leg was immobilized in a traction rig, bent slightly outward to avoid tension on the displaced hip.
“She’s stable for now,” Hunt told the charge nurse. “We got the liver bleed under control. Chest tube’s in. Lung re-expanded. Left hip’s out, so don’t move her. There’s deep-tissue trauma and a hematoma we didn’t touch. I want a repeat chest and hip films. And a head-to-toe CT scan.”
“Neuro checks?”
“She was intact,” Lucas added. “Responsive on scene. She spoke, tried to ask about her copilot. Check q15 for the first hour. If they remain intact, q30.”
The nurse nodded. “We’ll monitor swelling and keep her hip cooled until ortho can review.”
Hunt walked beside the gurney as they wheeled her into ICU Room 4. Inside, the light was lower. Calmer.
“Pain’s going to hit hard when she wakes.” He adjusted one of the IV lines. “We’ll keep her under as long as feasible.”
The nurse hesitated. “Is she going to wake up?”
Hunt’s eyes lingered on Shannon for a long moment. “She will. Hopefully on our terms and not hers. Bone fractures are the worst.” He left the room without another word.