Chapter 44
FORTY-FOUR
WAR ROOM
The war room pulsed with red-lit urgency. Analysts sprinted between consoles. Satellite feeds refreshed in jittery bursts. Drone telemetry crawled across the central display. Every voice overlapped, sharp and frantic.
But in the center of it, Mike Johnson and Ian Chase stood utterly still. Both were fixed on the live tactical map glowing across the main wall.
PING. A coded alert.
“Bravo Team signal update,” a tech called out. “They have the package. They have Dante Olivetti.”
Mike’s lungs seized then released in a shudder.
Ian exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. He allowed himself a single nod. “Status?”
The analyst swallowed. “Critical. He’s alive… but barely.”
Mike pressed both hands onto the table to steady himself.
Ian placed one firm hand on his shoulder, not as comfort, but confirmation. “He’s alive, Mike. That’s step one.”
Another alert flashed.
“Field medics are requesting immediate air extraction,” another analyst reported. “Nearest available med asset is Falcon Three-One.”
Ian’s head snapped up.
Mike’s face drained of color. “Shannon,” he breathed. “She’s the pilot.”
Ian straightened, his voice cutting clean through every other sound in the room. “Where are they flying him?”
“Nearest FOB Azzouagh Field Hospital,” the analyst replied. “Their trauma bay is minimal.”
“Not acceptable.” Ian turned sharply. “Move our people. Get London branch’s Alistair Roe and his team rolling now.”
A tech nodded furiously and began radioing.
Ian continued to give orders. “Dante can’t wait for Germany to stabilize him. If they push it, Roe can make it to the FOB in six hours. Get Hunt Montgomery and Mack Browning wheels up to Landstuhl. They need to be in Germany when Dante arrives.”
Two analysts scrambled to comply.
“Confirm Shannon’s flight path,” Ian added. “And I want live telemetry from Bravo’s medic during transport.”
Mike’s voice cracked, “Prep our jet to fly you, me, and Tim Holland directly to him.” His eyes burned with restrained panic. He turned toward the operational display, seeing his daughter’s call sign flashing on the screen. Falcon 3-1. His voice dropped to a whisper. “She’s flying into this blind.”
Ian’s eyes were grim. “She’s about to save the man she loves. She just doesn’t know it yet. Get me Roe on the line.”
The war room dimmed as the secure holo-screen flickered to life. Ian stood centered in frame, shoulders squared, face carved in cold urgency. “Connecting you through,” an analyst murmured.
The feed sharpened. Dr. Alistair Roe appeared, surgical scrubs on, hair covered, hands gloved. He was somewhere mid–procedure. London’s Chase Trauma Wing glowed sterile blue behind him.
He didn’t waste time. “Where am I going?”
Ian didn’t blink. “FOB Azzouagh. Northern Niger. Our operator Dante Olivetti is inbound in moments. We’re trying to get more information.”
Roe’s jaw flexed. “What are their surgical capabilities onsite?”
“Minimal field bay,” Ian answered. “No imaging beyond portable ultrasound and x-rays. No ventilators except transport units. No blood bank.”
Roe muttered a sharp curse. “That’s not medicine; that’s a tarp with an IV pole.” His expression tightened. “Who’s transporting him?”
Ian didn’t hesitate. “Air Force Black Hawk pilot. Our medic and their flight medic.” He blew out a breath. “Mike Johnson’s daughter, Shannon, call sign Falcon.”
Roe’s expression shifted. “Does she know we called her mom Falcon? It wasn’t official, but she saw everything. Hell, Mike did too.”
“Yeah, they made quite a pair.” Ian looked over at Mike. “One extra complication. Olivetti is her partner.”
Roe swallowed once. “She doesn’t know?”
“No,” Ian confirmed. “She has no idea it’s him.”
For half a second, Roe closed his eyes. “I’ll prep my team. We lift off as soon as the equipment is loaded.”
Ian nodded. “Good.”
“Tell the medics to keep him alive long enough for me to reach that base.”
Ian almost smiled. “Safe flight, Alistair.”
EVAC SITE – DELTA
Dante’s pulse was barely there. Ford felt it slipping through his fingers, fading like the last thread holding Dante to the world. Not again. Not another brother. Not this brother.
“Dante,” Ford dropped to his knees beside him, “hey, focus. Stay with me.”
Nothing.
Friend was already working on the airway, leaning over Dante’s face. “Shallow breaths. Shit. Too shallow.”
Ford tore open a med pack with shaking hands. Not fear. Something worse—rage that made his vision pulse at the edges. He grabbed gauze, tore it with his teeth, hands slick with sweat and dust. Dante’s skin burned beneath his palms.
Friend shook his head. “Throw me the syringe marked Ertapenem IM.” He popped the cap, jabbed it into Dante’s forearm and depressed the plunger. “Antibiotic in.”
Ford leaned down until his forehead touched Dante’s. “Don’t you dare,” his voice cracked. “Don’t quit on me. Don’t quit on Shannon.”
Dante’s chest hitched once, then stilled again. Ford’s stomach dropped like someone kicked out the floor beneath him. Friend began to help him breathe, squeezing a large silicone bag connected to a mask. His chest rose unevenly.
Sean’s voice cut through the haze. “Black Hawk inbound! Sixty seconds!”
Ford pressed two fingers to Dante’s throat again. Nothing. “No.” He inhaled deeply. Wait…there. A thread. A ghost of a beat. “Come on, goddammit. You’re Dante Olivetti. You don’t die in the dirt.”
Friend handed off the bag to Callow and dug his knuckles into Dante’s sternum. Hard. Dante’s body jerked. A wet gasp escaped his cracked lips.
Ford nearly collapsed with relief. “That’s it,” he whispered fiercely. “Right there. Keep fighting.”
The earth vibrated under him. Rotor wash hit like a sandstorm, exploding in every direction.
Friend threw himself over Dante’s body to shield him. Ford leaned in, taking the brunt of the grit across his back, feeling it rip into him.
The Black Hawk settled overhead. Ford’s chest tightened painfully as the medics sprinted in with the stretcher, ducking beneath the rotor blades. Together with Rocket and Callow, they lifted him. He was dead weight—too hot, too limp.
Ford instinctively cupped the back of Dante’s skull in both palms, steadying it as they carried him across the sand. “Easy, brother. We’ve got you. Don’t you slip away from us now.” His eyes burned. He ignored it.
The rotor wash grew stronger, sand whipping into his eyes as they ran. The medic shouted, “Ramp’s clear! Let’s go!”
Ford didn’t slow. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.
Friend’s voice roared, “HOLD THE LINE! MOVE!”
They reached the Black Hawk. Ford climbed aboard with one hand still on Dante’s face. He looked down at him on the stretcher, ashen, hot and dry, barely alive.
“You hear me, Dante?” Ford murmured fiercely. “You hold on until Shannon gets you to that hospital.” He swallowed. “You are not dying on my watch.”
The medics pulled Dante toward the center bench, hooking up monitors, bagging oxygen, bolting equipment down as the bird prepared to lift. Ford stayed right beside him. His hands were shaking, his rage was simmering, and his heart was breaking.
The Black Hawk throttled up for takeoff. A second flew overwatch. Once in the air, both headed toward FOB Azzouagh in northern Niger.