Читать книгу Protecting His Own - Lindsay McKenna - Страница 9

February 2: 0700

“How do you get oil and water to mix?” Morgan Trayhern asked out loud as he stood looking out the window of his office at Camp Reed. The marine base near Los Angeles had been operating twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week since an earthquake registering 8.9 on the Richter scale, had hit the Orange County area on New Year’s Eve. The devastation had left millions of people without food, water or medicine. Only this base had the air facility and personnel to even begin to try and save lives in that destroyed region. As an ex-marine and the head of Perseus, a covert agency that provided top-secret assistance to the government, Morgan had signed on to help with the recovery efforts. It hadn’t been easy. And with this next problem on his plate, his job had gotten a bit tougher.

Tucking his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, Morgan scowled. How was he going to get two very strong, bullheaded people to work as a team out in area 5 without killing one another? Morgan studied the faint pink color along the desert horizon, the sight of the new dawn filling him with hope.

The airport, a mile below the hill where the headquarters and logistics buildings sat, hummed like a stirred-up beehive. Fifty helicopters, mostly Sea Stallions and UH-1N Hueys, were lined up for takeoff—the backbone of the relief fleet. They had all been loaded the night before, and today two pilots would man each one, to fly goods into assigned areas. The flights would continue nonstop all day. Hardworking marine crews were also unloading huge Air Force cargo planes coming in regularly from points east. It was backbreaking work.

Absently, Morgan adjusted the collar on his red Polo shirt. Even though it was winter in Southern California, with temperatures dropping down to the thirties and forties at night, he wore short-sleeved shirts most of the time. His wife, Laura, always teased him about being so warm-blooded.

Turning, Morgan sighed, glancing around the tiny room and taking in the standard-issue green metal desk, the maps tacked to every inch of wall so he could plan and organize the flights. The radio on his desk was connected with each of the supply and rescue camps they’d already established in the devastated area. Each channel was designated for a specific region. It was also connected to the brain of the operation, in HQ, where the generals convened to create workable strategies along with federal and local government officials.

“Knock, knock?”

Morgan lifted his head. He smiled when he saw Dr. Samantha Andrews peek her head around the corner of his partially opened door. Seemed he was going to have that oil and water problem sooner rather than later. “Good morning, Sam. Come on in.” He lifted his hand.

“Thanks, Morgan. How’s Laura? I haven’t seen her since her last official checkup with me, a week ago. How’s her ankle doing?”

“She’s now on crutches. She hated that wheelchair, but she also hated being in bed with her leg suspended. I think the surgery you performed was successful.”

Frowning, Sam muttered, “Yes and no. When she got that blood clot later, that was a bump in the road to her recovery. I’m just glad we were able to fly in the drugs to get rid of it, since drugs of any kind are on short supply around here due to the earthquake crisis.”

Morgan nodded. “Well, like I said, she’s happy being on crutches. She was so elated when you gave them to her last week, and thrilled to be able to send the wheelchair back to Supply.”

“It will be eight weeks total before she can put real pressure on that ankle and the pins in it,” Sam said. “Hopefully, we can get her out of here by that time, back to Montana, and she can begin physical therapy at that point, to bring it back to almost full use.”

Lifting a pot from the coffee dispenser, Morgan held a cup in Sam’s direction as she stepped into the room. “Coffee?”

Laughing huskily, she said, “You need to ask a navy person if they want coffee?”

Chuckling, Morgan poured her a cup. “Right now, Laura is keeping busy by helping the pediatric ward take care of the babies. My wife is especially fond of Baby Jane Fielding, the little girl we found buried in the rubble while I was still out there in the field looking for Laura.”

“Ah yes, that cute little tyke,” Sam murmured, smiling. “Well, at least Laura has something to do. That’s important for her right now.” She came over and extended her long, thin hands toward the white ceramic cup he held out. “Coffee…” she sighed. “Nectar of the gods and goddesses….”

“Marines like java, too.”

“Yeah, marines aren’t far behind on that one,” she said genially as she watched Morgan pour himself a cup.

“Even ex-marines like me never lose the habit. It’s ingrained, I think.”

Laughing, Sam slid her hands around the thick cup and lifted it to her lips. “Understandable. The navy pays marines their checks twice a month, so they’re a part of us whether they like to admit it or not.”

“There’s the rub,” Morgan said. “Marines like to think they’re a stand-alone service, like the army and Air Force.”

Sam took a chair in front of Morgan’s desk, rearranging her white lab coat and the stethoscope hanging around her neck. “Yeah,” she said wryly, “I know. I run into that attitude all the time. Marines are too proud to admit they’re a part of something else. I think they forgot the concept of teamwork a long time ago.”

“Maybe so,” Morgan murmured as he sat down in the squeaky desk chair. “But the esprit de corps of the marines is known around the world and it’s very real.”

Sam sipped the coffee gratefully. She’d just gotten off a twelve-hour tour of duty, and it was 0700. She had twelve hours of rest coming to her before she went back on duty in the emergency room of the base hospital. “No question about that. It’s just that marines have a real problem working with anyone but their own kind. You used to be one. You know that.”

Grunting, Morgan nodded. “No question, at times, that it gets in the way of good teamwork with others,” he said, studying the young woman before him speculatively. Sam’s shoulder-length red hair curled about her thin, proud shoulders, a bright contrast to the white lab coat she wore over her standard navy issue light blue, long-sleeved blouse and dark blue slacks. Despite his concerns about her ability to work with others, Morgan knew Sam was a damn good surgeon. She had saved his wife’s badly injured ankle after Laura had been dug out of the rubble of the hotel they’d been staying in. If not for the doctor’s knowing hands in surgery, Morgan knew his wife might have lost her whole foot.

In fact, Sam, the head of E.R. for the navy hospital on Camp Reed, had insisted upon performing the surgery herself when she’d heard that Laura was married to the famous Morgan Trayhern. Morgan was forever grateful for Sam stepping in. Especially since the M.D. had already put in fourteen hours in E.R. that day, trying to help the hundreds of patients flowing through the doors in the wake of the earthquake. The hospital was on triage standing, and when Morgan had flown in with Laura, he had wondered if they’d get any help at all.

He remembered seeing Sam in the busy passageway just inside the double doors of the hospital when he’d arrived with Laura, who had been carried in on a stretcher by two marines. With her bright red-gold hair, Sam had been hard to miss beneath the fluorescent lights. The hallway was jammed and crowded. Morgan had heard the moans, the cries, had seen the obvious shock on the faces of dozens of people sitting on the floor, lying on gurneys, or standing and holding their bloody wounds, waiting for medical help.

Laura had been in deep shock herself, Morgan knew. Making his way through the crowd, he’d grabbed hold of Sam’s bloody white lab coat to get her attention. Automatically, he’d sensed she was in charge, because of the way she gave orders to the corpswaves and corpsmen, as well as the nurses. Her voice was cool, calm and authoritative. When she spoke, people settled down and listened. It was obvious Sam Andrews knew how to get things done, and that was the type of person Morgan wanted helping his wife.

When he’d grabbed her sleeve, Sam had stopped, turned her head, and then stared at him in surprise. Morgan had introduced himself, though he’d seen recognition in her eyes. For once, his legendary reputation had paid off. To Sam’s credit, she’d dived through the crowd to examine Laura’s mangled extremity, and then had called two orderlies over to take Laura up to an operation theater for immediate surgery prep.

Morgan would never forget the intense look of compassion in Sam’s eyes as she’d turned back to him. Gripping his hand briefly, she’d promised him that she would perform the surgery on Laura herself, and that everything was going to be fine. He’d nearly broken down and cried then. The genuine understanding in her eyes of what he was going through after nearly losing his wife in the hotel collapse had touched him deeply. Sam was a noble person, with such integrity and grit that Morgan had sworn he’d somehow repay her. Right now, he was going to do that, but he wasn’t sure she’d be thankful.

Leaning back in his chair, he said, “Sam, I’m pulling you from the ranks to help me. You’re the head of E.R. for good reason, and I need someone with your brains, moxie and abilities. Right now, we have an epidemic starting to flare up in the L.A. basin.”

Nodding, Sam sobered. “Yeah, I know. It’s inevitable, Morgan. The basin has no good local sources of water. I knew it would happen. A lot of people are gonna die if we can’t get someone in there to help, and soon. I know thousands of people are leaving the affected area and our agencies are trying to take them in, but they’re overwhelmed, too.”

“No disagreement. We have info that roughly a hundred thousand people have walked out of the area seeking help. But there are still those in the area who need medical attention. That’s why you’re here, Sam.”

She sat up and crossed her legs, resting the coffee cup on her knee. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Morgan eased upward and placed his own cup on the desk in front of him. “Starting tomorrow morning I want you to go into area 5 with a Recon team to protect you, and set up three sites for medevacs—medical evacuation areas—where people can get help for the dysentery, typhoid, food poisoning and other acute medical emergencies that are cropping up. Many people can’t walk ten or twenty miles to get out of the area, either because they are injured too badly or ill, elderly, or they are parents with children who might be more at risk on the road. These centers are being put into each area to take care of the people who are left behind. Plus, critically injured people have to be flown out ASAP because our road system is completely destroyed. We need you to formulate a medical system in one area, make it work, refine it if necessary, and then take that model to the other areas. You would be the advance medical team going in, setting up things for the regular teams.” He looked into her narrowing green eyes. Morgan could see she was very interested in the project. That was good. Maybe that would make up for the part he knew she probably wouldn’t like. “You think outside the box, Sam. I saw that when Laura was brought in and we were standing there in the passageway of the E.R., waiting for medical help. I watched as you assessed a lot of different triage situations, set things in motion and catalyzed everyone around you. You’re efficient. You grasp the whole of a problem, but you get the details right, as well.”

“Thanks,” Sam murmured, pleased. “Maybe you could suggest to the higher-ups to write that on my next six-month fitness report,” she said with a chuckle. Twice a year every person in the service was rated. The members on the fitness report determined whether or not a person would get promoted. A good report in one’s personnel jacket guaranteed it. A bad one could keep a person stuck in a job for years. It was a brutal, inflexible system, and many times, politics got involved. In these cases a career could be sandbagged and go to hell in a hurry, just because a superior didn’t like someone.

“Don’t worry,” Morgan promised her fervently, “after I get done talking to your superiors you’re going to get such a glowing report that you’ll jump from lieutenant commander straight to commander.”

Sam grinned mischievously. “That I have to see.” She warmed to the genuine sincerity in Morgan’s eyes. “I’m interested in this mission. That is why you called me in, right? To head up an advance medical team to create medevacs?”

“Yes. But…”

“Uh-oh…”

“Yeah,” Morgan said, trying to soften his expression, “there’s more to this mission than just you going in with key personnel, a map and ideas, Sam. As you know, we have a survivalist group running around out there. You’ve heard about them, right? The Diablos?”

“Yes. They murdered two marine helicopter pilots a couple of weeks ago, didn’t they?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“That puts them on my list.”

“Mine, too.” Opening his hands, he added, “And that’s why I’m sending in a Recon team with you. Things aren’t safe out there, Sam. These survivalists hit and run. We don’t have enough marine personnel available to cover the L.A. basin and hunt them down. They move from one area to another, although it does look as if they have a base of operations. We just haven’t located it yet.”

“Too little manpower to do so,” Sam agreed. She placed her coffee cup on the desk and clasped her hands on her knee. “Okay, so I handpick a small team of people to, first, find good sites for these three medevac tent areas, right?”

“Right.”

“And this Recon team is my big, bad guard dog, protecting me and my people while we reconnoiter the area to find what locations work best for helo landings and takeoffs for patients needing hospital care here at Camp Reed?”

“Yes, but we’re widening our scope of hospitals, since the navy CH-53E Super Stallions we just got on board have a helluva lot longer range and carry more fuel. We’ll be flying patients to hospitals north and east of Los Angeles, as far as San Francisco.”

“Well, that’s good news. We’re totally overwhelmed here and can’t do more than we are presently.”

“You know that more than anyone, Sam,” Morgan said grimly. “I’m surprised you’ve done as much as you have. You’re a magician.”

Sam smiled. “Look, I know this is a picky point, but I am in charge of this new operation, right? All of it?”

Moving uncomfortably, Morgan held her flat stare. He knew what was coming. “Sam…you’ll need to share the power and decision-making process with the captain who heads up the Recon team.”

“What, exactly, does that mean?”

His stomach clenched. From the short time he’d known her, Morgan knew Sam was a gung-ho, take-charge and take-no-prisoners kind of woman. She was a natural leader, a damn fine one. His own experience told him that Sam would balk at the idea of someone of the same rank being “boss” over her. She wouldn’t take kindly to the situation.

“It means,” he said gently, “that there may be times when Captain Gunnison may have the final decision instead of you, Sam. It would be in the area of safety,” he said, trying to reassure her. “I want you and your team safe. He and his men are trained for that. You’re going to have to work with him and vice versa. You might not be happy about it, but you’re going to have to base your decisions about the medevac areas and so on on his perceptions of the dangers.”

Morgan saw her rear back, surprise on her face. Her green eyes widened enormously and then narrowed to slits. Trying to avoid a blowup, he said, “I know this isn’t what you want, Sam. But under the circumstances, I can’t, in all good conscience, turn you loose out in the field with those survivalists roaming around like a pack of wolves. It’s a volatile, dangerous situation. The last thing I need is you to have wounded or dead. I’m looking to you to create the medical model for each of these areas. The epidemic is already flourishing out there. A lot of people are dying. Medevac stations should have been set up weeks ago, but I had to battle the top brass to get this plan in the works.”

“Tell me I heard wrong, Morgan. You said Captain Gunnison?”

“Yes. Why? Do you know one another?” Morgan guessed the answer to that by the look on her face, and his gut clenched.

“Do I know him?” she drawled. She threw her hands upward. “Do I know this arrogant, know-it-all, I’m-right-and-you’re-wrong marine? Oh, brother, do I! One of his men got hurt in a Recon mission here at Camp Reed about six months ago, and he was the biggest pain in the arse in Emergency. I happened to be on duty when the guy was flown in, with Gunnison at his side. Talk about a mother hen, Morgan. Gunnison was in my face, demanding that his man be taken care of immediately, ahead of other emergency cases that were a helluva lot more severe and life-threatening.”

“And he got into an argument with you on it?” Morgan could see where this was going. He’d been right: these two were oil and water, and would never mix. But he was so strapped for personnel. What he couldn’t tell Sam was that Gunnison, the executive officer of the Recon company stationed at Reed, was the last man available to pull for this five-man team. Everyone else was assigned to another area. Morgan was stuck. He hadn’t known about this earlier confrontation between her and Gunnison. He hadn’t anticipated this kind of reaction from Sam. Damn.

“Argument?” Sam said lightly, derision in her husky tone. “Let’s put it this way, Morgan—I was nose-to-nose with this arrogant SOB out in the passageway. I told him I was in charge of E.R., not him. He had the balls to say it didn’t matter, that his man’s injury took priority.” Sam laughed sharply and shook her head. “When Gunnison wants something, he’ll move heaven and hell to get it. When I refused to treat his man right away, he went over my head—stormed out of E.R. and went to my direct superior, Commander Talkins. Fortunately, Talkins didn’t side with him, and put him in his place. But Gunnison called over to his company commander, Major Branson, to raise hell and have pressure put on me to deal with his marine’s injury.”

“Oh, boy…” Morgan murmured.

“Yeah, no kidding. And you’re assigning this guy to me and my team? Morgan, I’m sorry, but I don’t ever want to deal with that dude again. He’s bullheaded. He won’t listen to reason. I can just see the kinds of hell I’ll go through out there with him. Besides, he’ll see it as a way to get even with me for not making his marine’s injury a top priority, and he’ll stick it to me. I know his type. I don’t need the hassle. Just let me go out there and do my job, okay? That I can do. And well.” Besides, the death of her fiancé, Captain Brad Holter, who had been a Marine Cobra helo pilot, was enough for Sam to deal with. Since her loss two years ago, she avoided marines. Having to work closely with Gunnison wasn’t going to be easy, emotionally, for her. He would remind her all over again of the magnitude of her loss.

Rubbing his chin, Morgan sat back, trying to think. The noise outside his door intruded. People rushed up and down the passageway, always in a hurry. Radios crackled and voices spoke in haste. Everyone at Logistics was under pressure; the tension was palpable.

“Okay, Sam, I’m going to level with you,” he said finally, sitting up and pinning her with his gaze. “We have no other Recon teams left. They’re all out in the field, providing protection in the other areas. Area 5 has none. It does have a marine fire team, but that’s not enough, since it looks as if the Diablos, the survivalist gang, are a major problem in that area. For all we know, they may have their base there. There’s no hard evidence of it, but it appears to be a possibility.”

“Okay,” Sam murmured, “so you’re telling me I’m stuck with Gunnison, right? He’s the last man on earth I’d want to deal with on this mission, yet he’s my partner in this?”

“I’m afraid so,” Morgan said apologetically. “If I could, I’d give you another team, Sam. Honest to God, I would. But this is beyond my scope to change. I think, right now, that we need to focus on what’s really important here—setting up medical sites to handle this emerging epidemic. Somehow, you and he are going to have to overlook past insults and injuries, take the higher ground here and get along.”

Quirking her lips, Sam said, “I can do it. But can he? Honestly, Morgan, he’s a trip. He thinks he’s God on earth. His men worship the ground he walks on. Gunnison thinks that everything he says ought to become law and then some. This guy does not know how to compromise or even delegate.”

“I hear you,” Morgan said unhappily. “Look, here’s what I can do, because I have you written in for a helo flight tomorrow morning at 0600 with him and his team. I can call Gunnison in, read him the riot act, give him a paternal talk about getting along with you and letting past history go for the sake of saving people’s lives.”

“Good luck,” Sam murmured. “Oh, hell, Morgan, I understand you’re caught between a rock and a hard place. My E.R. has been in that position since the earthquake occurred. Let me go gather my team, okay? Can I get a delivery of medical supplies, to bring with me to fight the epidemic?”

“Thanks, Sam. You’re special. You really are. I’m going to try and get Captain Gunnison to realize that about you. Sure, get your list of supplies together and bring it over to me. I’ll contact the loadmaster down at the airfield and make sure you get what you want on board that chopper later today. It’ll be a Sea Stallion, by the way, so it can hold extra cargo as well as people.”

“Fine,” she sighed. Shaking her head, she gave him a wry look. “Never a dull moment, is there?”

“Not in an emergency of this magnitude,” Morgan agreed quietly. “But you’re the right person for this mission, which we’re calling Operation Rescue. You access area 5. You find three locations for medevacs. You have Captain Gunnison call in the coordinates to me, and I’ll make them happen within twenty-four hours, to give those poor folks some intervention. Maybe then,” he sighed, “we can nip some of this epidemic before they start raging.”

“Humph,” Sam groused, standing. “Bad water’s the reason for many of these health problems. I know the helos are flying in as many cases of water as they can. But there are too many people out there, Morgan, and not enough clean water. They’re going to drink questionable stuff rather than die, and that brings on cholera, typhus and a whole host of other uglies.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” he said, smiling. Getting up, he thrust his hand across the desk. Sam’s grip was warm and firm. “Thanks. For everything. I’ll talk to Gunnison today.”

Wrinkling her nose, she released his hand and growled, “Oh, yeah, that’s like telling a pit bull not to bite. Good luck, Morgan. You’re gonna need it with that stiff-necked marine.”