Page 57 of Luck Be Mine
Unsurprised, Hunt leaned into the mic. “Indiana confirmed. Secure cargo. Then exfil. Good job. It’s the Navy’s problem now,” he ordered, an internal sigh releasing.
Another destroyer waited in the wings and between the two ships, the dhows would be boarded by Marine security detachments who would handle the weapons and offload the captured crew. A NATO team would join the party.
No joy for Yemen today.
The Michael Murphy turned closer and launched two boats with the marines.
A half-hour later, he returned to the deck and raised his binoculars. They were closer to the renegade dhows.
The yeoman briefed him. “All team members accounted for and waiting to exfil, sir.”
He found their positions. Exfil began. The teams slipped off the side, one at a time, and into the water with a quick extraction from the sea to the rubber boats.
No wasted movement, no rookie mistakes. He counted until all men were aboard and the rafts were on the way to homebase.
Slow. Smooth. Fast.
Satisfied, Hunt silently celebrated, shoving aside the fog of worry. The responsibility on this end was heavier, the distance sharper. He wasn’t sure he liked either, but tonight’s mission was clean and worth being acknowledged.
§§§§§§§§§§
March 2021 – Fifteen Months Since Injury
◊ First Cut, Second Chance ◊
Finally!
Her turn in rotation.
Cait swallowed hard and took breaths against jittery nerves. Her hands trembled, and she executed a quick physical therapy exercise to manipulate her fingers. It took too long to get the feeling back in her hand after she got hurt. Add the time to get into this retraining program, and the obsessive need to keep testing each finger every time annoyed.
You are healed now, Cait. Quit acting like a green resident.
Disturbed by the whine of the elevator, she distracted herself by checking the other riders. A young woman in a lab coat was on her phone; the other man was asleep propped in the corner – visitor or staff, she couldn’t tell, although visiting hours were over. She coaxed the floor numbers to drop from five to four to three…and finally to one, adrenaline already flooding her system. The hospital emergency room had accident victims inroute, and she was finished with routine surgeries and ready for trauma.
The doors opened and the reality of the moment flooded her. The cream walls, speckled beige flooring, blue textured curtain dividers defined the treatment areas with local modern art splashing color throughout. UC San Diego Medical Center’s Emergency Division, one of the busiest in San Diego, buzzed like a beehive with a volume of noise that stupefied.
Nothing good happened after midnight. Emergency rooms knew this. Police knew this. Fire knew this. It was her own medical and personal philosophy and certainly held true tonight.
She put on her old persona and exited at a determined clip before the other two occupants of the elevator could move. Hopefully, someone woke the guy in the corner. She did a quick scan for the supervising ER attending physician, Dr. Hugh Day, and couldn’t find him. Rounding the physicians’ station, she saw the charge nurse and shifted course.
“Dr. Hunter,” Bettina Smith called to her.
“I’m here, Bets.” She stopped at the woman’s side. Petite and perky, the don’t-mess-with-me vibe came extra. The four-foot-eight woman had gorgeous mocha skin, wide brown eyes, not a hair out of place, and an attitude that allowed her to use her finger, her stare, and a steady voice to get results. Even the chief of ER Medicine didn’t argue with her.
“Ambulance inbound. Arrival in two minutes.” Bets studied her handheld device. “Trauma three. Waiting on a surgery assignment.”
Cait hit the prep area and slipped into a surgical gown to cover her scrubs, washed her hands, and put on a pair of latex gloves in one continuous motion. She made her way to trauma three, but the room was empty so she moved to the doors where the fire department ambulance would enter with the patients.
Bets had made her circuit and was waiting for her.
“Three teenagers. One critical.”
“What happened?”
The lights flashed in the circular drive to the door.
“Street racing. These three were in one vehicle. The critical patient was in the backseat. No seatbelt. Car flipped.”
