Chapter 29
As they filed out of the brig, she pointed and said, “That’s Ming. He brought us here.”
It surprised her how much it hurt to speak, now. Her head throbbed as they moved, and her jaw hurt like nothing she had ever felt.
Jerry nodded and said, “We’ve met.”
While all the spaces occupied by the passengers had carpet, wallpaper, decoration, and elegance, this area of the ship had metal painted floors, white walls marred with scrapes and nicks, and harsh white LED lighting. Such a dichotomy between the two.
Bill Sanders led their group, Jerry stayed beside Olive, and they stayed behind the two men, while Jared Ibrahim covered their rear. At every intersection and stairwell, they paused while Jerry and his teammates took directions from someone named Heisman.
On the third deck, the corridor became very wide, double the width of the promenade. After a turn that took them toward the outer part of the ship, they went through a wide door and entered the loading dock.
The astringent smell of the ocean and gunpowder mixed with the citrus smell of explosives burned her nose.
Some of Jerry’s team stood near Jorge Pena.
She spotted Calvin Brock guarding some people contained by a pen made from crates, some wearing black fatigues and some in crew uniforms, all bound hand and foot.
She could not help but notice the long line of bodies covered by tablecloths.
Emma rushed toward her, wearing a golden gown, her hair pinned up in a French Twist, and also barefoot. High heels clearly were not the preferred tactical footwear. How odd they must look in their gowns among the ruins of battle.
“Olive!”
The women hugged. “We were so worried,” Emma said.
Olive chuckled. It hurt, but she managed, “Me, too.”
Hao cleared his throat. “I would like to get back to the bridge. Is there someone who can escort me?”
Jorge approached. “One moment, sir. We’re in touch with the Captain. Let me see what we can do.”
He pulled Jerry and Olive out of earshot. Before he could speak, Jerry said, “Colada, I strongly advise not taking that man to the bridge.”
“Oh? “Jorge raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that, Maguire?”
Jerry released a big sigh before he spoke. “Call it a hunch.” He paused and said, “Sir.”
After glancing back at Hao, Jorge said, “Got it.”
“Wait,” Olive said. She stepped closer. “He was dragged in unconscious. I had to stop his head wound from bleeding. He’s not faking.”
After this speech, her hand instinctively clutched the side of her jaw, and she felt herself wince.
“Maybe,” Jerry said. “Maybe not.”
Rick Norton approached. “If I get a vote, I agree with Maguire.”
“Your vote counts, Coppertop.” Jorge nodded. “Okay. He stays here.”
He looked at Olive. “Ozzy is in sick bay. Pot Pie caught a bullet to the lower abdomen. He needs surgery. They could use an extra hand. The Secret Service boys have Cynthia locked in tight. No help there. Feel up to helping out?”
Jerry leaned in. “She got beat up pretty bad.”
Olive put a hand on his chest and smiled up at him. “Should have seen the other guy.”
Jerry stared blankly into her eyes. With absolutely no inflection, he said, “I met him briefly.”
Olive tried to read any kind of emotion in Jerry’s expression. She realized he was compartmentalizing at that moment. Remorse and second-guessing would likely wait for some vulnerable night of bad dreams weeks or months from now.
To Jorge, she said, “I can’t do what you all do. But, I know how to assist a surgeon.” Jorge’s eyes narrowed, clearly inspecting her injured face, evaluating her slurred and painful speech. “I can do it,” she insisted.
With a deep sigh, Jerry said, “I’ll take you. It’s on this deck. Not far.”
“Drop Olive, then get back to work,” Jorge said. “Fourteenth Group is ‘Talon Strike.’ They are about twelve mikes out. Fast movers inbound, too. Hate to do this to you, Maguire, but you’re who we got.”
“Roger, Colada.”
Confused at the code speak, Olive looked at Jerry, who nodded. But she could see his jaw clenching. “What? What is it?”
Jerry turned her to face him. “Long conversation. Promise we’ll have it soon.”
Jorge put a hand on Emma’s waist. “Twenty-four Ten, go with them. I don’t think we’ll need you for a while.”
“You got it, Colada,” Emma said. She patted him on the cheek and looked at them. “Ready, Maguire?”
Olive realized they didn’t trust who could hear what, and their work depended on secrecy. They used their call signs even in casual conversation, even here, to remain clandestine.
“Gonna need Bourbon,” Jerry said.
Olive frowned. Bourbon? Since when?
“That you will.” Jorge turned back briefly. “Pick Bourbon up when you drop Olive off. Then make your way up top with Twenty-Four Ten.”
“Sixty seconds. Need to grab some gear,” Jerry said. “Drumstick. Give me a hand.”
He and Sanders lifted one of the sheets and pulled a black backpack off the person under it.
Jerry dumped its contents on the deck. He and Bill Sanders shifted the lid of a crate and loaded the backpack with ammunition.
Then they quickly moved to a different crate.
Jerry retrieved a long rifle that looked identical to the one strapped to his back, including the same elaborate-looking scope.
He detached the scope from the second rifle and casually stowed it into the backpack.
As he slipped the pack onto his back, he said to Jorge. “Set.”
Jorge spoke into the air. “Heisman or Trout, guide Maguire to sick bay, then to the chapel, if you would be so kind.”
Jerry led the way down the corridor and around two corners to the sickbay.
The doors automatically slid open. Inside, Phil pressed a thick pad to Daniel Swanson’s abdomen while Tim Waller ransacked cabinets for supplies.
Blood covered Daniel Swanson’s white dress shirt and his forearms up to his elbows.
Olive assumed Tim had started the saline IV and placed the pulse oximeter and blood pressure cuff while Phil managed the wound. She rushed forward and went straight to the sink. “What do you need?”
Phil lifted the towel on Daniel’s abdomen and probed the wound. “A surgical theater would be nice.”
Tim turned with a look of relief and announced, “Swanson, Daniel. Older than dirt male. Single GSW to the lower right abdomen about 20 mikes back. I carried him here, maybe 10 mikes back. It was not a fun trip. Ozzy just showed up. Entry with no obvious exit, likely lodged internally. No other injuries noted.”
Jerry spoke from behind her. “Bourbon. You’re with me when you can break it off.”
“Roger that,” Waller nodded, then spoke to Olive again.
“Patient is conscious but in a lot of pain—rating it 8 out of 10, oriented times three. BP’s low at 92/58, pulse 112 and thready, respirations 24 and shallow, O2 sat 94% on room air.
Skin’s pale, cool, and clammy—signs of early shock.
Likely internal bleeding. No allergies reported, no meds on board yet.
Just found morphine and fent. I’ve got a 16-gauge IV in his left AC with normal saline wide open, about 500 mL in so far.
BP cuff and pulse ox are on. No active external bleed now, but abdomen’s rigid and tender. Haven’t done a FAST yet.”
“Anything else?” Olive asked.
“No time to look around. Got what I needed when I saw it. There’s probably a surgery or clean room further in.”
Jerry asked from the doorway, “You good?”
Olive gave Phil a thumbs-up, and Phil said, “We’re all good. Go.”
Tim and Jerry hurried away.
Phil lifted his chin toward the door that led further into the sickbay.
“I haven’t been able to leave him yet, either.
See what we have back there. A theater would be nice, but if not, see if you can find a surgical kit of any kind.
I need—everything—but scalpel, forceps, clamps, sutures, gauze at a minimum. ”
“Yes, doctor,” she said automatically, her speech somewhat slurred as if she had a lisp.
The cold of the tiled deck seeped into her bare feet as she went through the door into the inner part of the sick bay.
Her head throbbed with every step. She passed a nurse’s station, grabbed a stethoscope from the back of a chair, and then went through a treatment room into a back corridor that showed signs for X-ray and a procedure room.
When she peeked in there, she looked around and rushed back to the front room. “Found one. Small surgical room.”
Phil taped the IV against Daniel’s arm and looked at the wheels on the bed, kicking the lock loose. “Let’s get him back there.”
“I found scrubs.”
“Good. We’ll get dressed for success before we really get going.”
Olive made note of Daniel’s blood pressure while Phil expertly applied Betadine all around the wound. He lifted his chin toward her. “Take out the earbud, will you? It’s distracting me. You can just set it down somewhere. I can compartmentalize it if it’s not right in my ear.”
Olive stripped her glove off and took the earbud out of his ear, then put his phone on speaker. He held his hand out. “Scalpel.”
While she assisted Phil, she prayed. The pain in her head and jaw distracted her. Her jaw throbbed with each heartbeat. Soon, the full metal jacketed steel core bullet he pulled out of Daniel plinked into a metal dish.
“Vicious round. Surprised it didn’t go right through or bounce around a little inside you, Pot Pie. Let’s see what you did,” he murmured, then said, “Shine the light this way, please.”
Phil thoroughly searched the path of the bullet, making sure he didn’t have to stop any more bleeding. When he felt sure he hadn’t missed anything, he began closing. Watching Phil’s beefy fingers perform this delicate work fascinated Olive.
She anticipated his needs, having the instruments and implements in hand before he even asked for them. She secured the needle with the suture thread in a pair of needle forceps and held them out as he opened his mouth to ask for them.
His eyes crinkled around his mask. “Anyone ever tell you that you should be a nurse?”
She chuckled and said, “More than once.”