Setting: ATF Universe
Page 14
"Is he breathing?" J.D. asked, eyeing the bloody pile by the car. Team Seven's youngest was sitting on the crate, trying not to breathe.
"To quote our former comrade from Texas," Ezra steeled, "I don't give a rat's ass." He cocked his head as sirens approached. "That was fast..."
The caravan of a half-dozen cars stopped several yards away. Ezra craned his head to see past the darkness and squinted when a door slammed. He made out two figures, one of whom walked in front of the headlights.
"John Dunne?"
"Who's asking?" Ezra replied, moving in front of J.D.
"It's me Standish," a second voice answered.
"That's Orin," J.D. whispered, "What's he doing here?"
"He came out earlier today, when we got Mr. Tanner's message." Ezra answered, then projected his voice at his superior. "I am here with Mr. Dunne. He needs to be transported to a hospital. Josiah and Buck have gone after Mr. Larabee and that vile creature. Her accomplice, Mr. Anthony Kennedy, is resting a few feet from where I stand."
"Use your phone," Orin shouted, pulling out his cellphone. A few seconds later, his cell rang.
"Travis. Ezra, pay attention. Because of the potential contamination, you and Dunne will be transported to St. Michael's hospital, nearby. The Army's Infectious Disease Team will be in charge. They're sending a chopper to pick you two up. ETA is five minutes. What direction did..." he paused as an explosion interrupted his train of thought.
"That one," Ezra answered, closing his eyes.
"What?" J.D. pulled his aching body up. "That might not be Chris... maybe it's... maybe..."
"Buck knew a short cut to a nearby marina," Ezra continued, "they should be in transit on the water."
"I'll alert the coastguard to radio them to stay put. The army chopper can pick them up too." Orin replied, "Put J.D. on the phone."
Ezra turned and handed the phone back, trying not to think of the explosion or see the pain in J.D.'s eyes.
"Hel...lo..." J.D. was suddenly very tired and he ached.
"How are you, Son?"
"I'm okay..." he paused and thought on Chris's words earlier, "... a few scratch and dents, but salvagable." He blinked hard, hoping that Chris wasn't dead too.
"Did you have any contact with Vin?"
J.D. heard the catch in Orin's voice and knew what he was asking. He shook his head before responding. "No, Sir... I haven't seen Vin since before she... before he..." J.D. bit off his sentence. "Is he really dead, Sir?"
"It looks that way, J.D. The Army cannot afford to take any chances. You, Josiah, Buck and Ezra will all have to be detained at St. Michael's."
"What about him?" J.D. jerked his head at the body nearby. "He's got a bullet in his knee... might need a stitch or two... " J.D. heard Ezra chuckle and shifted the phone.
"He'll be taken to St. Michael's too. I'll talk to you later, J.D. Hold your head up, Son..."
"Thank You, Sir," J.D. nodded, feeling the words more than hearing them. He handed the phone back to Ezra as the sounds of a helicopter were heard.
On any given day and time, a night like this would have been full of romance and soft whisperings. The tide sang a mezmerizing lullaby and the moon glittered suggestively off the dark water. But as the sea breeze lifted his hair and the salty spray kissed his forlorn face, Buck Wilmington waited in fear. He kept a vigil over his two friends, both so pale and lifeless.
The headlights from the car above and the flashlight kept the small area illuminated. Vin was lying so still it was painful to watch. Buck caught himself staring intently at the sharpshooter's chest, waiting for the slight rise and fall to cease. He was careful to touch Chris and that hurt. He was afraid he'd contaminate him. Luckily, the blond wasn't bleeding, both wounds were quiet at the moment. He sat by Vin's side, wincing at the awful rattling breath that was forced from the pale lips. His belly was ice cold, gripped by a silent terror.
"Hello!"
"Huh?" Buck blinked rising and moving in front of the two prone bodies in the sand. He squinted at the two policeman standing at the top of the dune, a good thirty feet away.
"Can you identify yourself?" the taller one asked, flashing a light at Buck. "We're Maryland State Troopers. We got a call about the Federal Agent suspected of murdering a local..."
"He's no goddam killer!" Buck lashed out. "He's damn near dead and where the hell is the ambulance? I've got two friends hurt bad..."
"You work with... with..."
"Yeah," Buck called back, "that wounded agent with the light hair is Chris Larabee, leader of ATF team seven. I'm Buck Wilmington and this," Buck knelt by Vin and rested a hand on his slack shoulder, "is Vin Tanner, they don't come any finer..." Buck warned.
"You stay put," the stocky one replied, "Our orders are to keep you contained until the Army chopper gets here. They dropped off your friends and their ETA is about five minutes."
Buck's face screwed up, "...friends... Dunne and Standish?"
"I don't know, we weren't given names," the taller one answered.
Buck's attention was then drawn to the familiar whir of blades in the sky. He threw a hand over his eyes and saw the approaching helicopter. It set down on the sand, up the beach. He turned back to Vin and waited for the small, harsh breath to come forth.
"That's it, Slick, you just keep on breathing..." Buck commanded, lifting Vin's limp hand.
"Don't touch him," a deep voice ordered from behind, "Step away from him now!"
"You from Earth?" Buck greeted weakly, eyeing the spaceman-like Hazmat suits approaching. The bright yellow garments covered the army men from head to toe. "I'm Buck Wilmington, ATF." he nodded to Chris, "That's my boss, Chris Larabee and this is Vin Tanner." He moved as one man dropped by Chris and the other, older and larger, by Vin. He watched as the younger man probed Chris's hairline, as he administered oxygen. "He took a bullet in the shoulder and got hit by debris when the boat blew up. The bitch... uh... suspect Jamie Newlander, didn't make it. My partner Josiah Sanchez and I were following in another boat. I jumped in and got them out of the water. Vin wasn't breathing... I gave him mouth to mouth." Buck's voice faltered as he watched the grave expression the man examining Vin wore. Even through the protective shield, he saw the grim face clearly. When Buck finished speaking, the other man raised his head, his eyes were a mix of shock and admiration. "I'd do it again!" Buck vowed adamently.
"I'm Second Lieutenant Gary Miller," the Army medic responded, "and I'd say this boy's damn lucky to have a friend like you." He did a quick assessment of the patient's vitals and slipped the oxygen line over his wet hair. Other than a few cuts on his face, there didn't appear to be any broken bones.
Buck moved aside when the third man arrived, bearing a stretcher. He watched while Chris was loaded on it and taken to the chopper. Then the stretcher bearer returned, kneeling by Vin.
"What's our ETA, Mark?" the medic asked the newcomer.
"Five minutes," he replied, easing the still body onto the stretcher.
"Good, because I don't think this boy has ten in him. Let's move..." Miller hollered, lifting one end of the stretcher. "You too," he urged Buck, who seemed distracted. "Were you injured?" he called out as they moved towards the open door.
"No..." Buck whispered, creeping into the vehicle. He buckled up and felt his heart pounding, as the two medic's worked on his friends. He felt his own heart beating rapidly as he watched the two medics work quickly and efficiently. Within minutes, they established IV'S on both unconscious agents and intubated Vin. The lionhearted agent's eyes were glued to Miller, as he rhythymically squeezed the ambubag in his hand, delivering life sustaining oxygen to the stricken Texan. Ten minutes... the numbers buzzed in his head. Was this Vin Tanner's last sunset?
"I feel like we're in a bad science fiction movie," J.D. complained, eyeing the yellow space suits.
"We might be," Josiah replied, looking at the empty first floor of the former hospital. "Wonder if Mel Gibson is free?" he wiggled his eyebrows and Ezra chuffed, rolling his eyes.
"Positively eerie," Standish noted of the deserted floor. "One can almost imagine an axe-bearing maniac running rampant."
"Thanks Ez..." J.D. wheezed from the wheelchair.
"You two, are in here," the female voice directed, pointing to adjacent rooms. "Strip, shower and I'll be back for you."
"I think she likes me," Josiah deadpanned, giving Ezra cause to grin. With a nod, each man disappeared into their rooms.
The room was clean and not unlike any other hospital rooms he'd seen. White walls with light blue wallpaper, a bed, television, nightstand but no phone. Ezra saw the yellow trash can and read the directions. He took his jewelry off and laid it on the nightstand. His clothes came next, and he put them in the trash container. The hot shower felt good and he jumped a bit when a female voice appeared next to the curtain.
"I'm leaving scrubs for you. Don't leave this room. There will be food brought in soon."
"Thank you for..." he jumped again as the door slammed, "...being such a charming companion."
When they got to the room, J.D. stood up and stepped away from the chair. He began to undress, but two of the yellow suited staff moved in and cut his clothes away. He was then herded into the shower and finally into a robe. He was taken to a room down the hall and stepped up onto an examination table. The robe dropped to his waist as the taller of the figures stepped forward
"Are you a doctor?" J.D. asked the dark-skinned woman inside the suit, as she examined the puncture marks on his back and arms.
"Yes, I'm Major Kendra Taylor," she answered, "I'm one of the team of medical personnel from AMERIID called in to help with containment. This is Corporal Dennis Toner, he's a nurse."
"AMERIID?" He glanced briefly at a young white face in the other suit. The assistant was taking notes.
"U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Disease," she cantered, "This facility was closed down a few weeks ago. It will be our headquarters until we are sure the threat is gone." She spoke as the stethescope hit his chest. "The medic on the helicopter said your lungs were clear, " she paused "...take a deep breath for me."
J.D. teeth clenched together as the breathing caused the pain to increase. He continued to take deep breaths, as best he could, every time she asked him. Finally she took the plugs from her ears, "Your lungs are intact, but we don't want them to collapse. You need to continue to take deep breaths and cough, if possible. This will help keep them inflated and prevent pnemonia from developing. Dennis will give you Tylenol with Codeine for the pain." She glanced at the many puncture wounds. "Snake?"
"Yeah... lots of 'em... no venom," J.D. hissed as something cold hit the wounds and stung him. He clenched his teeth, as the liquid medicine hit his skin.
"They're not deep, but can be quite painful, especially if they get infected. We'll leave them open for now. Let's see that arm, you're lucky, it's healing fine," she appraised, cleaning the old knife wound. After stitching it, she ran her hands on the purple and blue chest.
"OW!" he yelped as her fingers hit his ribcage. He gripped the table and felt tears spring to his eyes. He finally was able to push the red wall of pain away.
"Lay back please, I'm going to take an xray." Once that was done, she continued, nodding to Toner, "Subject A, John Dunne, appears to have several broken ribs, along with a half dozen puncture wounds from a non-venomous reptile attack and a minor wound on his arm. Subject will be placed on an IV for minimum of forty-eight hours, after which the antibiotics will be given orally. Tylenol with codeine will be given for pain, when required."
"I didn't have any contact with Vin," J.D. wondered aloud. "I'm not sick..."
"You're very lucky and we're not taking chances." She nodded, picking up his arm, "Make a fist, let's find a nice vein. We're going to keep a close watch over you."
J.D. flinched as the needle entered his arm. Two vials of blood were drawn. Dennis helped him slip on blue scrubs and then walked him back to his room. He passed Ezra's room and saw the doctor taking samples. He gave a brief wave, but before Ezra could respond, the doctor's beeper went off. Both men shared a startled look, when a voice came over the beeper.
"...Major Taylor to the ER, incoming. Major Taylor to the ER, incoming."
"Dennis, I'm done with Mr. Sanchez. Finish up Mr. Standish's BP and temperture, record everything in the computer. Have the samples taken upstairs to the lab." She said of the makeshift laboratory on the next floor. The staff at St. Michaels had reopened the old lab and now several lab technicans, chemists and other personnel were getting set up.
"Buck?" J.D. whispered, grasping the doorway in pain. Then another thought struck him, "Chris?"
With that, she was gone. The three ATF agents stared at the armed guard by the exit at the far end of the hall, wondering how badly their missing friends were hurt.
Gary Miller didn't miss the raw emotion in the blue eyes of the man across from him. He was practically bleeding for his two friends. The senior army veteran eyed the battered blond. Despite the variety of bleeding wounds and colorful bruises, he thought the young man had a good chance. He sighed and eyed the younger patient. How the kid was still breathing, amazed him. Usually the plague would have killed it's victim by now. He adjusted his eyes back to Wilmington.
"Your outfit together long?" he asked, hoping to break the dismal silence.
"Chris..." Buck's hand went out towards the pale blond, then retracted. He drew them together in his lap, nervously twisting his fingers. "...we go back twelve years. He's the best... a helluva of an agent and tough as nails. Vin..." he whispered, his hand itching to pull the loose strands of wet hair from the pale face. Hoping, somehow, Vin knew he wasn't alone. "...he uh... he's new to the team, but he's got something... in here..." Buck tapped his chest. "Deadly with a rifle, scary you know?" He took a deep breath. "It's not true... what they said about him. He didn't kill the cop, he's not on drugs... they... she... used him. Folks should know. Hell, the damn TV had him crucified... it's not right. He's a good man, a damn sight finer than most I know..."
Gary Miller felt every bit of the younger man's pain. He did know, he had buddies too, good ones, that went down in Viet Nam. Sometimes that war seemed like it was a hundred years ago and other times it was like yesterday. How many times had he ridden in choppers over a dense jungle and watched his friends clinging to life.
"I do know," he said slowly, "...and I'm sorry. Hell, he hung on this long... kid's got guts."
"He wrote the book," Buck said, reaching a hand out again and retracting it.
When the helicopter landed, the door didn't open right away. Buck kept his eyes on Miller, who was poised over Vin. He was prepared to ensure that the breathing apparatus sustaining his patient's life would not be affected by disembarking the helicopter. The gray eyes under the shield were narrowed in concern and Buck watched him shake his head slightly.
"Oh God..." he whispered, reaching for Vin.
"No!" Miller put his hand up, "He's still alive... I don't know how, but he is," he paused, as a rap on the door sounded. "... about damn time..." he muttered, as the panel was opened revealing a
plastic tunnel. The tunnel was from the helicopter to the ER entry. Buck watched as first Vin, then Chris were whisked away, amidst a small patrol of yellow suited figures. He stood on uncertain legs and slid out, wobbling a bit as he landed. A strong arm caught him under the elbow.
Relieved of their patients' care, the medics watched helplessly as they disappeared into the building
"You okay?" Miller asked, seeing the face drain of color.
"I don't... I'm kinda numb..." Buck managed, forcing his legs to work.
"I gotta go back to base," Miller said, "Good luck..."
"Thanks," Buck returned, still walking forward.
"Hey, Wilmington," Miller called and saw the tall man turn. He saluted and saw the slumped shoulders straighten a bit, before the clouded blue eyes found life and the hand came up, repeating the gesture.
Buck gave the departing soldier a wane smile and let the yellow arms propel him into the ER. The atmosphere changed instantly. He saw Vin disappear into a large cubicle with glass walls. His unconscious friend's clothes were cut away and shoved in a hazmat can. He saw them move in and surround the pale body, taking blood and vital signs. Vin's limbs flew around like a limp ragdoll's and made Buck's stomach fall. Then Vin was turned on his side, his back was swabbed and large thin needle was headed towards his spine. Then the curtains on the glass walls were drawn, cutting off his view. He was shoved towards a bathroom and ordered to shower.
"Chris?" He asked, pushing the intrusive arms away. "I got feelings you know," he snapped, eyeing the dark-skined face under the mask. "I'm no Goddamn cow to be prodded along." He shoved the offensive hand away and felt his face flush with heat. "Now I got two friends that could be dying. I want some fuckin' answers! What the hell are they doing to him?" he eyed the now curtained room several feet away.
"Okay, calm down," the army man said, putting a hand up to halt the guards ready to enter the area. "I'm Sergeant Tyrone Johnson. I'll be taking care of you and Larabee. He's on his way next store, to get a CT scan on his head, just to make sure there's no problems, then he'll go to the OR to get that bullet out. He'll be brought back here and his bed is right there, across from yours."
Buck followed the gloved hand waving to two bed directly across from each other in the vacant large ER floor. Twin televisions were suspended from the ceiling and a small stand with a pitcher and cup were next to it. A kidney shaped basin and a clear bag with toiletries were in the center of the bed. He took a deep breath and raked a shaky hand through his hair.
"Your buddy Tanner?" Tyrone asked and saw Buck's head rise slowly. "They'll take blood, start him on an agressive antibiotic cocktail. They're not sure what he might have, so they need to do a few tests. There's a possibility he has Anthrax, which can cause internal bleeding. That's what the lumbar puncture is for. It's an invasive diagnostic test, in which CSF..."
"CSF?" Buck interrupted, listening intently.
"Yeah, it's stands for cerebrospinal fluid, it's extracted for examination and pressure of the spinal column is measured. They'll insert that thin needle between L3 and L4," he paused and tapped Buck's back. "...right here. They'll draw out some spinal fluid and test it for uh... well it can determine a whole list of diseases. But what they want is clear fluid... no blood. That would probably rule out Anthrax, him being infected this long."
Buck paused and licked his dry lips, studying the curtained wall and then the shielded face. "You a doctor?"
"Second year resident," Tyrone replied.
"Can you find out for me, Doctor Johnson," Buck asked quietly, "...please..." he swallowed hard, but not before his voice broke. He dropped his head and let out a long, hard breath. He felt a gloved hand grip his shoulder and drew his head up.
"Sure... it'll take a little while. I need you to take that shower and get those clothes off. Then we're gonna have to take care of you, okay?"
"It's fatal, isn't it?" Buck rasped, feeling the full ramifications of the deed of vengeance.
"I'm afraid so... in most cases."
Buck nodded and shuffled into the shower, suddenly feeling like a man of eighty. He scrubbed his skin raw and slipped on the green surgical clothes left on the sink. He took a long drink with unsteady hands and eyed his reflection carefully. Alone, in the bathroom, he thought of his two friends battling for their lives, because of him. Guilt struck him hard, sending him onto the closed toilet. He swallowed back the nausea and got to his feet, leaving the bathroom. Two guards eyed him carefully as he made his way to his bed. He attempted to get closer to the curtained room, but two yellow-suited figures stopped him. He was shuttled to his bed and his arm wound was dressed. Then blood samples were taken and an IV line was inserted. He filled the small cup twice with ice water, gulping it quickly. The icy sensation slid down his windpipe and into his hollow stomach, causing it to cramp. He flinched and rested a hand there, just as the door to the glass walled room opened. He saw Tyrone walking slowly towards him and his heart sank. The contents of his stomach rebelled and he yanked the kidney dish. He was just spitting out the last mouthful, when a hand came to rest on his back. His muscles tensed, his hands trembled and he slowly raised his head.
Rain Jackson made her way up Blake Street, drinking in the unique atmosphere of the neighborhood that had been her home since birth. LoDo was the place where Denver was born, about one-hundred and fifty years before. Rich in history and overflowing with flavor, the unique section had it's share of ups and downs. Currently experiencing an urban renewel, the historic homes, some dating back well into the 1860's, stood proud and tall among the dozens of art galleries, restaurants and loft apartments. These were the result of many of the old warehourses had been renovated. It was a place where horse-drawn carriages competed with cars and buses on the busy streets.
Her mother's people, the Cheyenne and Arapaho, lived on these grounds long before the white man settled here. She inherited her exotic beauty from her mother, who met her father over thirty years ago in jazz club in the very neighborhood. He was an African American piano player and among the best on the circuit at that time. He was twenty years older than her mother, but they loved each other and found happiness here. Two years after they wed, Rain was born. The only child of the union, she was doted on by both parents and showered with love. She was only twelve when her mother died from cancer and that helped make up her mind about her career. Although she was gifted artist and one day had dreams up her own gallery, for now the call to medicine was stronger. Her father's death two years ago had been violent and bloody. A hot summer full of racial tension and several white supremacy groups in the area, led to violent confrontations. Her father was playing at a small bar when the firebomb went off. He never had a chance.
Nathan, she smiled and felt her insides tingle when his image was born. Those soulful brown eyes and warm smile, reflected the good man inside. A truly decent soul lurked in that fine body and there were so few left. She met him here too, part of a neighborhood watch group organized during the strife of that summer. Her father and some of the others formed the group, which got support from several law enforcement agencies. Nathan's friends came to lend a hand and were a key ingredient in the arrest and conviction of the group responsible. Nathan had been the reason she could deal with the hatred that filled her since her father's murder. He was the calm of her storm and she loved him deeply.
She eyed the stars in the sky and let the cool breeze lift her long hair off slim shoulders. Normally, a night like this would have found the couple strolling through the streets, seeking a cafe au lait in a corner cafe. Maybe they'd take in a Rockies game at Coors Field, then they'd count the stars and find love in each other's arms. But this wasn't an ordinary night. One of Nate's brothers, yes, that's what they'd become, was lost to him.
The doctor's let him go home at noon and by the time he was settled on the couch, CNN reported the Vin was presumed dead, lost at sea. She'd been in the back of the house and her heart stopped when she saw him. He didn't say a word, but his face was ashen and mournful. She took the remote from his hands and gathered him close. She wrapped him in her arms and brushed the tears on his face away. She tried to turn the television off, to take away the image of Vin's face from his view, but he denied that.
"Don't shut me out, Nathan," she whispered, turning his pain-lined fine towards her.
"Jesus, Rain, Vin..." his voice broke. "The things they said... lies... it hurts..."
"I know, Baby," she eased drawing his head onto her shoulder. She turned away from the image on the screen. She blocked out the shot of Vin's wide-eyed terrified face on the beach. She drew up another one, of the shy smile and glorious eyes lit up in mirth. Few people got to see that side of Vin and that hurt the most. That the gentle soul and sensitive spirit she knew, the young man whose poetry brought tears to her eyes, was lost forever. She rocked Nathan until the pain meds kicked in and he fell asleep. She had to be on duty at three and roused him before she left. He ate a little soup and went back to sleep. Milo Sinclair, their eccentric next door neighbor, came over to stay with Nate while she was gone. The elderly gentlemen was a retired schoolteacher and an old friend of her father's.
She stopped in the Golden Panda and picked up some Shrimp Lo Mein, Chicken with Cashews, Egg Rolls, Hot and Sour Soup and Vegtable Fried Rice. She shifted the package of Chinese food in her arms, inhaling the exotic aroma. She sighed and made her way up to Eighteenth Street and frowned when she heard male voices from inside. She glanced at her watch, which read almost ten p.m. Turning the key, she was suprised to find Milo gone and Mike Ryan sitting on the sofa with Nate.
"Mike?" She greeted curiously, then saw the light shining in Nate's eyes. "Honey?" She placed the large bag on the table and entered the spacious living room of their loft. "I got Debbie to take the rest of my shift. What's going on?"
He answered her with a kiss and squeezed her hand, and his eyes spoke loudly, shortly followed by words. "He's alive..." Nate whispered, "That sorry-assed Texan is alive!"
"Vin? But how?" she turned to Mike.
"Orin called me about a half-hour ago," he said standing up, "I was leaving Coors Field when I got word. I thought Nate might like to hear it from me, before CNN screws it up."
"Buck found Chris and J.D. in a warehouse in Mystic Cove. This ties into a case, Buck's first, eighteen years ago. Anyhow, the bitch that was behind this, Jamie Newlander, blamed Buck for her father's suicide and disgrace. He was F.B.I., but dirty and got caught." Nate paused, out of breath.
"So," Mike took over, "She took off in a boat, with samples of germ warfare... a deadly cargo of some sort. She had buyer waiting offshore. But Chris got on the boat; they're not sure of the rest. Buck and Josiah followed them. The boat exploded and Buck dove in the water; he pulled Chris and Vin from the sea."
"Where did Vin come from?" Rain asked confused.
"The boat apparently, but we don't know how he got there. They're all at a hospital in Mystic Cove, a St. Michael's. The Army sent their infectious disease team in to take over. Orin doesn't know much, Chris is in surgery, he took one in the shoulder. J.D.'s okay, just banged up a bit." Mike halted, eyeing Nate's expression.
"...and Vin?" She asked, squeezing his hand.
"He's alive," Nate said gruffly. "Well he is..." he answered Mike's dark gaze.
"I know that, Nathan, but... I don't want you to get your hopes up." His blue eyes went to Rain's expressive dark ones, "Orin said... they think he's got the Bubonic Plague or Anthrax..."
"Oh My God..." She choked, putting her hand to her throat. "Oh Vin..."
"Quit buryin' him!" Nate pulled his hand away, wincing as a pain lanced through his healing side. "He ain't dead... he hung on this long."
"I uh... I gotta go..." Mike faltered, feeling the tension building. "You take care, Nate. If I hear anything, I'll call."
"Thanks, Mike," Nate nodded and Rain walked him out.
"I didn't mean to upset him..." Mike frowned, "Hell, I don't want Vin to die... but..."
"I know, Mike," Rain said softly, rubbing the muscular arm. "He's too close... it's gonna hurt. Thanks for coming."
The dinner was quiet, Nathan picked at his food, his eyes hooded and distant. Later, in the quiet of the night, he laid in her protective embrace. The curtains ruffled and offered a view of the starfield outside. She was dozing off, her head resting on the back of Nate's shoulder, her arm slung over his waist. She thought he was asleep, he'd lain so still and quiet. Then she heard his voice and bit her lip as her eyes filled, it never sounded so fragile.
"Please... God... don't let him die."
"Somebody get on the phone to Denver and get his medical background..." Kendra Taylor barked, entering the tented-area to change her hazmat suit. "What are his vitals? We'll need a lumbar puncture," she hollered, entering the glass room. "Angie, four units, type and cross," she ordered the nurse, "How high's his temp? Come on people!"
Her expert eyes took in the presence of the ventilator at the bedside. The ventilator was a machine about the size of a small dishwasher. A plastic hose, about one-inch wide, ran from the machine and was connected to Tanner's endotracheal tube. The smooth rhythmic sound of the ventilator was all she needed to hear to know that the machine was doing the breathing for the young agent. She saw he was hooked up to a cardiac monitor and was not surprised to see a rapid but normal tracing of the electrical activity of his heart.
"Temp is 105.3, ventilator rate is set at 16, BP is 70 by palpation," Mollie Muldoon, a thirty-year old staff sergeant replied. She moved in and rolled him, so Angie could cut the rest of his wet clothes off.
"How much fluid is in?" Kendra fired back.
"We've got 2 peripheral IV's running wide open. The fourth liter of normal saline is just finishing."
"Mollie, set up for a central line. I want 500 cc bolus of Hespan now and start him on low dose Norepinephrine. Increase the dose until he has an adequate blood pressure" she directed of the effort to counter the shock, trauma and stress that sent the young man's blood pressure plummeting. The precise measuring of the drug would insure that blood flow to vital organs, like his kidneys and brain, was maintained while minimizing the harmful side effects that often occurred. "Let's get that cooling sheet under him," she noted of the electric cooling blanket which would help lower his high body temperture. "... and I want Tylenol suppositories every four hours." She frowned, eyeing the near lack of movement from his chest. "Sandy!" Kendra turned to Lieutenant Alexander Dunkirke, catching his intense blue gaze, "Call next store and get the vascular on-call over here stat, I'm going to need a hand getting that central line inserted in his neck."
"On it," the forty-year-old handsome physician replied, from the doorway. "Oh, Gary said Tanner was non-responsive when his buddy pulled him from the ocean, he aspirated water." he noted of the threat to pneumonia, especially with the patient comatose.
Angelina Cruz looked up after placing the vials of blood in a tray. "...take these upstairs..." she asked the blond doctor. The lab on the upper floor was reopened and AMERIID laboratory technician's awaited their samples.
"Sure..." he said, "I'll get his medical bio from Denver..." he noted, grabbing the tray and departing.
"Angie," the Major called out, while cupping Vin Tanner's flushed, wet face. " I want to start him on Penicillin and Erthyomycin. I'm going to put an arterial line in..." The physician picked up Vin's limp right wrist and inserted an arterial catheter in the radial artery, which would be used for drawing blood gases and monitoring his blood pressure.
Taylor looked over at the monitor and noticed with relief that Tanner's blood pressure was responding well to the fluids and medication. After taping and securing the lines, she was ready for the spinal tap. "I need both of you to roll him over and hold him, while I swab," the Major directed, carefully cleaning the area and lifting a thin needle from the surgical tray. She waited until the nurses were finished and holding the unconscious patient steady in a fetal position. Then she carefully began the process of penetrating the skin and spinal canal to obtain 4 tubes of fluid. Once completed, she applied pressure and a bandage, carefully easing the ill man onto his back. "It's clear..." she held the vial up and saw Tyrone Johnson appear.
"Is that the one who gave him mouth to mouth?" she asked , jerking her head towards the curtained area where Buck was.
"Yeah, he's pretty shook up." the dark eyes watched the twenty-five year veteran of many battles and field hospitals work with lightning effiecency. "He's clean and Sandy's putting in a IV with penicillin."
"Bloodwork, urine and sputum, from both of them," she drilled to the young man who nodded, while inserting the foley catheter.
"Larabee's in the OR... but I'll get Wilmington's done," he hesitated, "Looks like it isn't Anthrax..."
"No, but whatever it is," the Major replied, listening to Tanner's chest via a stethoscope, "... it's killing him. "I need a portable unit... he's loaded with congestion." After ordering the chest x-ray, she felt the swollen glands under his jaw.
Angie was finishing up the nasogastric tube, wiping the blood from the flushed young man's nose.
Hearing the tell-tale sound of secretions in the critically ill man's endotracheal tube, Mollie moved in to suction him. She carefully inserted a suction catheter into the tube and collected sputum for culture. This was a very uncomfortable procedure, but a necessary one. She remembered all too well a patient who died after his tube had been clogged by a thick plug of mucous.
"I want him suctioned every four hours," the Major directed, placing a sheet over Vin's waist. The cooling blanket was set at a temperature that would help conquer the intense body heat and would be adjusted as his temperture dropped down to a normal range. Despite Mollie's efficient skills, the suctioning caused reflex coughing. The patient's weak body jerked in helpless spasms, subsiding as Mollie reattached the ventilator and finally the procedure was done. Angie sponged his face, neck and chest with a cold cloth.
"I'm John Kofsky," a voice greeted. "I'm the Vascular surgeon," he moved in and tilted the critically ill patient's jaw. With a steady hand, he then proceeded to insert the line into Vin's neck. Prior to initiating a flush through the central line, he checked it for blood return. Satisfied, he turned to the two nurses. "Keep it clean, call when the chest xray is done and I'll check to make sure the placement is right. Until we know it's in the correct spot, don't give any fluids or medications through the line." he said, nodding to the Major and departing, anxious to lose the hot, hazmat suit.
"Thank you," she nodded to the surgeon and then turned her attention to her staff. "I want to know the results of those cultures ASAP," Kendra directed, of the samples Mollie was collecting. "I'll talk to Wilmington and then update his friends. One of you will stay with him at all times."
The two nurses nodded, as the forceful entity left for the hazmat tent. Mollie collected a urine sample and took it, along with the sputum culture upstairs to the lab. Angie stroked the young man's face, noting the fine features below the watery sheen. A staunch Catholic, she began to recite the rosary silently, while she recorded his vital signs and watched the monitors. Her only company was the reassuring whoosh of air being pumped into the handsome patient's lungs. She sighed and wondered if he would open the eyes she knew were destined to be blue
The forced cough was painful and brought tears to his hazel eyes. They lingered and lounged on his heavy lids, seeking company on their way down his bruised face. J.D. was in an upright position in the bed. An IV tube brought antibiotics into his body and he sucked the coke he'd been given dry. He shook the empty can and tossed it in annoyance at the trash can.
"Looks like Kobe can sleep easy," Josiah wryly noted of the Laker's star. "You okay, Son?"
"Worried..." J.D. managed, stiffling a yawn. "Why can't we get a phone. I need to see... talk to Buck. Why won't they tell us who got brought in? What if Buck's hurt. What if Chris..."
"Ezra's working on it," Josiah interrupted, flipping the television on. He flicked through the channels until a reporter came into view. He turned the sound up and noted the outside of the hospital.
"...were brought in a short time ago, they appeared to be alive and we're waiting for an update. One of the suspects was killed in the explosion. Jamie Cameron Newlander, shown here in a press photo from..."
"Dammit!" J.D. shoved the tray away so forcefully, he felt a burning sensation in his ribs and stiffened up, crying out in pain. He clenched his eyes closed and forced himself to breathe, not trying to fight the tears in his eyes. He felt Josiah's hand on he shoulder and nodded. "...too fast... didn't suffer..."
"Well," the preacher eyed the likeness on the screen. "I'm guessin' she'll have all of eternity dodgin' pitchforks to make up for that."
"What about Chris?" J.D. asked the microphone bearing anorexic poster child on the screen.
"The other suspect, Anthony Kennedy had a bullet removed from his knee. He is being treated for other injuries sustained during a struggle with the federal agents..."
"Struggle?" Josiah chortled.
"...will be kept in isolation and monitored. If he continues to be virus free,over the next few days, he'll be transported to the Federal Penitentary. Larry..."
"Shit!" J.D. cursed. "What about Chris and Buck?"
"Mr. Larabee is in surgery and our resident rogue is resting comfortably and without injury." Ezra noted, being herded into the room by a yellow suit. "This is Lieutenant Dunkirke, he has come to collect samples and has news of our friends.
"What's Chris in surgery for? What happened to him?" J.D. demanded, coughing again and gripping the rails.
"I don't think I have to warn you about moving around like that. You've got to protect those lungs." Sandy warned. "Chris Larabee sustained a wound to his left shoulder and a head injury, from the explosion we're presuming. He's listed as guarded and is in surgery right now. His CT scan was good... most likely a concussion."
"and Buck?" J.D.'s eyes grew wide when he saw the flicker of the doctor's eyes through the mask. "What's wrong with Buck?"
"He wasn't injured," the physician hedged, sensing the young man anxious state was due to a close relationship with the older agent he'd met upstairs. "However, he is at considerable risk due to his exposure."
"Exposure?" J.D. frowned, "To Chris?"
"No, to Vin Tanner," he paused.
"He's alive!" J.D. exalted, "I knew it... I knew he wasn't dead. Jesus..."
"Thank God," Josiah heaved a long breath and bowed his head in prayer.
Ezra turned away, not wanting the others to see the emotion on his face. He already knew what the doctor was going to say, having been updated already. He moved to J.D.'s side and his face betrayed him.
"What?" J.D. said seeing the sadness in Standish's gaze.
"Apparently Vin was on the boat, somehow," Ezra said quietly, laying a hand on the youth's shoulder. "...and after the explosion, Buck found Chris and Vin in the water. Vin... wasn't breathing. Buck gave him mouth to mouth."
"My God," Josiah marveled. "It's a miracle." He turned back to the doctor, "How's Vin, Doc? What are his chances?"
"They're drawing spinal fluid out to determine what he might or might not have, Anthrax and a form of the Plague are suspected."
"Good Lord!" Ezra gasped, gripping the rails to Dunne's bed. The gravity of the words hit him, even though he'd been trying to prepare since seeing the awful video. "They're fatal?"
"Yes, I'm afraid so..."
"He can't die..." J.D.'s voice trailed off, his eyes seeing Buck's face. He heard Ezra voice but not the words and vaguely had a sense of Josiah comforting. He nodded absentmindedly to them as they left, allowing the doctor to take samples. He closed his eyes in the darkness of the room and his bitter tears fell. "Buck... you can't leave... I need you..."
Across the hall, Ezra and Josiah waited for the doctor. They sat in silence, each absorbing the startling news. Josiah sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. Vin and Buck... both lost. Like his partner, he'd been preparing himself for the worst, seeing Vin's ordeal. But Buck's sacrifice had given life and perhaps taken it away in the span of a few breaths.
"I don't think I've ever encountered a braver act," Ezra finally said. He liked Buck Wilmington. How could you not like the man? He'd chosen the desk next to the charming rogue for that reason. He envied the gregarious aura the exuded from every Wilmington pore. Despite his complaints, he enjoyed their double dates and the effortless genius at which Buck manuevered everything that is female.
"Be strong and of good courage," the preacher's steady voice quoted a Bible passage from Deuteronomy, "do not fear or be afraid, for the Lord thy God it is he who goes with you; he will not fail nor forsake thee."
"Yes," Ezra nodded of the insightful passage, "it would appear Buck was not alone on that stretch of sand."
"We're never alone, Ezra," Josiah peered at the gambler, whose eyes were clouded and downcast, "He's always with us..."
"Josiah," he turned, watching the wise blue eyes regarding him. "Perhaps when the doctor leaves, we can partake in a prayer."
"Partake it shall be, Brother," Josiah nodded, wondering how Buck was coping.
Buck's eyes stared intently at the somber dark ones regarding him. He shoved the sloppy kidney dish aside and took a shaky breath.
"Well?" he asked Tyrone, his gut as cold as ice.
"The fluid was clear..."
"Jesus, aw Jesus," Buck gasped, head reeling. "He don't have Anthrax?"
"No, but that means that Bubonic or Pneumonic Plague have just been bumped up to number one," Tyrone offered, gripping the downcast shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wilmington,"
"Buck..." the rogue choked, swallowing hard. "...thanks... the plague... so how bad... Shit, that's a dumb question."
"No, it's not," Tyrone sympathized, swaying at the sacrifice this man made to save his dying friend. "and yes, either usually are. But he's been infected for forty-eight hours and he's still fighting. I think that has the Major hopeful. Don't give up hope Buck, without that, you got nothing."
"Yeah... he's full of piss and vinegar," Buck thought of the cranky Texan's mood and found a soft smile. "his guts alone will keep him breathing." His eyes flicked to the empty bed. "Chris?"
"Still in surgery, but holding his own. He'll be back down here during the night."
"J.D.?" Buck's eyes rose. "Shit, the damn Kid's probably fussin' and cussin'. Can I call him?"
"Uh... let me check..." he eyed the imposing figure approaching. "That's Major Kendra Taylor. She's in charge. I better get to work," he swabbed Buck's arm and took two vials of blood, followed by urine and sputum. He nodded and departed, as the Major drew up.
"How's Vin?" Buck asked, eyeing the curtained glass wall to this right.
"He's alive," she answered dryly, "for how long, I don't know. We've managed to stabilize his vital signs for now, but his temperature is soaring, almost 106."
"Yeah, I could feel his skin burning through his wet shirt."
"Do you realize the risk you took when you adminstered CPR?"
"Why does everybody fuckin' get in my face about that?" Buck bristled, blue eyes blazing. "He wasn't breathing, for Christs's sake... he's a good friend." He tossed an icy look at the brown eyes regarding him. "I'd do it again... " he answered the lingering look. "I want a phone, I want to talk to J.D. Dunne."
"I'm sure if Colonel Blackburn decides to allow..."
"Allow?" Buck vented, "This isn't Russia for Christ's sake, it's America. I want a Goddamn phone. That Kid's been through Hell and he needs... I need to talk to him."
"I'll see what I can do," she replied, handing him a chart. "I need to ask you about your medical history. "
Buck answered the questions and finally she left, seeking the stairwell. He slipped under the sheet and sunk into the bed. He eyed the empty bed across from him, suddenly needing to see Chris Larabee's face. He thought on the dark days after Frank died and how strong Chris had been. He cast a gaze at the curtained glass room, the only light in the darkened ER. He got a lump in his throat when Vin's face appeared in his mind's eye. A mental 'whooping' sound accompanied the euphoric face, split wide with a smile. It was the face he'd worn for hours after his hockey team won their leagues championship just a few months ago.
"Life's too short to eat bad pizza," he whispered, wondering about that sign on Vin's desk. "Life's too short.." he began again and wondered about Chris. In the darkness, he let his own fears creep up his chest and slide out of his heart. What if he got the Plague too? Who would look out for the Kid? Damn fool was still green. He'd make a helluva agent, Buck saw that right off. But it took years of seasoning. Years of learning, the kind of learning that doesn't come from a book, just from experience... from life... from the right hand... like Frank's. The kind of education he'd gotten from Frank Delassi, well they didn't come any finer. And what of Chris Larabee? What if the brooding leader lost both his best friends? Would that be too much to bear? Even for a Larabee?He was still pondering, when the weariness overtook him and he dozed off.
The dark ward caused him to shiver and he looked quickly around the vacant cavity, as spectre's of the past lurked at every turn. It was too quiet and way too eerie, like the set of a B horror movie. He adjusted the drip on Buck Wilmington's IV and took his vital signs. The tall patient never stirred. He was almost finished, when movement in the shadows caused him to tense.
"Tyrone?"
The earnest resident jumped and snarled at the slight body next to him.
"Dammit, Girl!"
"Big, bad Tyrone is afraid of the dark?" Angie teased, eyeing the body in the bed. "Was he a hero or a fool?"
"Hero." Tyrone said without thinking.
"Just like that?" She whispered, still gazing at the handsome face relaxed in slumber. "He might die..."
"...and therein lies the difference," Tyrone replied, eyeing Larabee's vacant bed. "That's the stuff you can't teach or learn, it comes from within. That's the stuff that wins wars in cold trenches on foreign soil. It's because of him... guys like him... and the real meaning of the word sacrifice, that we're breathing free air here in the U.S. of A. He'd do it again... without batting an eye... and that is the difference. Larabee?"
For a minute, Angie slowly absorbed the young resident's words. She leaned down and brushed an errant lock of hair from Buck Wilmington's face. She left her hand linger on his cheek for a moment and nodded. He sighed deeply and turned towards the touch, a smile forming.
"Larabee?" Tyrone prompted.
Buck felt the soft touch and tried to draw up a picture. He took a good breath and let it out slowly, snuggling into the small hand. His mind was blank for a minute, then the horrid events rushed forth. He wanted to open his eyes and see... see... Chris... Vin... J.D... .It was all muddled. He was lost in that netherworld of deep sleep, a slave to his strong subconscious. Words buzzed above his head and he slowly roused himself.
"He won't be over until later," Angie answered, "They ran into some complications..." She filled him in as they moved away.
Complications. The word hit the struggling body hard. Complications. His mind mulled the word over. Difficulty... problem... setback... snag... Chris? Chris? Why couldn't he remember where Chris went? Chris? Buck's body jerked in the bed as another image formed. Shot. Was that the problem? The wound to his... his... shoulder. Yes, that was it... his heart hammered as another thought crept within his churning mind. Head injury. Chris... Chris... the harder he fought, the heavier the wall became, until it overcame him. When Tyrone looked back briefly, as they pair entered the old Admin offices further off the large room for a briefing, Buck Wilmington was resting, still and silent.
Sandy entered the former office cluster that housed the Admin and Business offices. He paused in the doorway and eyed the exhausted body in the folding chair. Her normal pristine appearance was long gone. The heat inside the hazmat suit left her short, dark hair a limp mess. Dark circles lounged under her eyes and her uniform was rumpled. The body was nearly sliding from the chair. A half dozen more sat around a large vacant desk, awaiting the rest of the troops. A smile creased his handsome face and he crossed the room silently, placing a large mug of coffee in front of the weary frame. He raked a hand through his shaggy blond mane and then rested both on the slumped shoulders. He massaged them firmly, dropping his voice low.
"You cut a fine figure, Major..." he paused as one eye opened and glared up at him. He winked boldy, "I'll get a couple specimen cups and some Mad Dog," he noted of the cheap wine. "Show you a good time?"
"Get your sorry white ass in a chair," Kendra snapped, slapping the hands away, "Your Mama didn't wear out enough rulers on your behind, when you were a child." Twenty years of friendship gave her the power. They'd been through wars and scares and waded through swollen bodies, too many days dead under the brutal sun. They cried on each other's shoulders more than once and nursed each other through too many close calls. Sandy had been the first person she called when Malcolm died. Although she never married, Malcolm and William were her crown jewels. Like most single mothers, it was a struggle, overcoming the lure of drugs and other teenage temptations. She'd fought the battle and won, only to lose her oldest to a drunk driver. William was eighteen now, a tall, graceful boy, who had his mother's eyes and fierce drive. He was a freshman majoring in Sports Medicine at the University of Virginia.
Sandy laughed and slid into the chair next to her, eyeing the fatigue.
"After the brief, you get some sleep. Did you eat?" He frowned and saw the head bob once. "I got a couple old saltines I've been saving."
"You're all heart," she drolled, rousing herself and shaking the slumber waves off. "Claire's goin' straight up to heaven." She shook her head, thinking of Sandy's bride of over a dozen years.
"Luckiest day of her life," Sandy crowed, reading the notes he'd taken about Vin Tanner and the other sick men, "the day she fell in my arms."
"Fell in your arms?" Kendra rolled her dark eyes, "Your ass was diving for cover, you knocked her clean over." She recalled of the encounter with the former photojournalist during a close call in Turkey.
"That's not how I remember it," he argued, nodding to Tyrone and Angie. Dennis trotted in behind them.
"Hmmphh..." Kendra glared at the winning grin and turned to the newcomers. "Dennis, any change in Dunne?"
"No, he's holding steady. So are the other two. I called over to the main building, Larabee should be ready in a hour or so."
"Larabee..." she flipped through her notes, "bullet removed from left shoulder, broken collarbone..."
"...splinted and immobile," Toner backed up, eyeing his own notes.
"The leg?" Sandy asked of the infection the surgeon uncovered while debriding dead tissue. "Open and drain twice daily..." he eyed Tyrone, who would be the principle caregiver, "...irrigate with normal saline, then pack the wound with saline soaked gauze and cover with dry."
"Okay," Tyrone copied the orders down. "What about his back?"
"Dr. Rivera said the raised welts didn't appear infected," Kendra recalled the conversation with the surgeon. "He sent cultures over, we'll swab too and evaluate. He's on Ancef," she read of the postoperative infection fighter, "and Penicillin. He's running a fever..just over 100. Dr. Rivera said his leg was a mess... let's add Gentamycin in the IV. Tyrone, you keep your eyes open... he had contact. He's already weak..."
"Okay," the tired medical man agreed, "Wilmington's stable... no change."
"...and that leaves Mr. Tanner..." Major Taylor sighed, "Angie?"
"Mollie was suctioning him when I left, she was having a tough time." the pretty nurse paused, her dark eyes studying her notes. "His temp is up a full degree, his blood pressure is a little labile," she noted of the erratic reading. "But we're able to maintain his systolic pressure above 90. He's still tachycardic with his heart rate around 120" she paused, thinking of the rapid heart action, "...and his urine output isn't great but it's been around 30 cc's an hour so far. His airway pressures are climbing and I'm starting to worry about that, although his oxygen saturation is still hovering around 95."
"The Lab said his cultures are bacteria free..." Sandy noted, "His lungs are a mess... he's developed patchy bilateral infiltrates, " he noted of the chest x-ray. "I talked to Roger Davenport in Atlanta," he said of the senior CDC analyst "He's putting together a rapid recovery team. They'll be here in the morning."
"Good," Kendra nodded, "We're gonna need him. Something's killing that boy..."
"What have we eliminated?" Tyrone asked, eyeing the death list.
"Anthrax," Sandy noted, sipping his coffee, "Ebola, West Nile... uh..."
"Bubonic Plague?" Angie asked. "...or another variety."
"Suspected at first but we can rule them out," Sandy replied, "Examination of Tanner's groin, underarms and neck revealed no buboes," he noted of the swollen and tender lymph nodes of which it derived it's name. "...and it's been three days and he's still alive..."
"No hemhoragging or black sores..." Toner ruled out pneumonic plague. "So what are we looking at?"
"I don't know," the tired Major sighed, "and I'm afraid our answers might be gone up with that boat," she noted of the explosion that took the creator of the deadly disease. They reviewed the material recovered from the Iranian's boat, but she wondered about the missing information that had been on Newlander's boat. "Anything from Denver?"
"About her?" Sandy frowned, "No... the F.B.I's got a team digging through her lab... it's gonna take awhile, there are thousands of records to go through."
Kendra nodded thoughtfully,"Okay, until the lab boys can give us something to go with in terms of what we're looking at, we have to continue to treat him based on the clinical picture. If his blood pressure is unstable, we probably haven't caught up on his fluids. Lets give another 500 cc's of Hespan and give him a total of 200 cc's per hour of IV fluids. We'll assess his fluid status in four hours and turn down the IV rate if it looks like we're overloading him"
Tyrone grunted in approval and continued to make note of the orders as The Major continued to plan the care that would be given.
"I really hope that we're not looking at Adult Respiratory Distress Syndrome developing here. I don't know if he could fight ARDS too," the blond lieutenant frowned as he thought of battling yet another life threatening complication.
"Well, we've got him covered with antibiotics if it turns out to be pneumonia and we could change him over to pressure control ventilation to limit the potential lung damage. Also, we could always put in a couple of chest tubes prophylactically," the young resident offered, eager to practice his chest tube insertion skills.
"Yes to the change in ventilation and no to the chest tubes." Taylor directed sternly at Tyrone. She remembered all too well being a resident and eager to practice her skills, but this wasn't the time or place for that. "I'd like his urine output to be a little higher and it wouldn't be a bad idea to start him on low dose Dopamine to help his kidneys and force some fluid through them... let's go with 3 mcg/kg/min. Does he have any bowel sounds?" She took a gulp of coffee and Angie nodded.
"Good, let's start feeding him with Nutrisource at 20 cc's per hour via the nasogastric tube. If he tolerates that, you can slowly increase the rate to 75 cc's per hour. I must admit that I'm out of ideas with his temperature. I do remember warming a patient once by putting him on cardiopulmonary bypass but I don't think we have the equipment or a perfusionist on hand."
"There is one more thing we could try." Angie interrupted."When I was in training we were able to control fevers by bathing the patients in a mixture of cool water and rubbing alcohol. I know that hospitals stopped doing that, but I sure remember it helping."
"Hey, that's a great idea. My mother swore by it and it does bring relief," Sandy pressed, eyeing the Major, "It can't hurt, let's give it a try." He waited and saw the dark head nod in agreement.
"We better hope for a miracle," Major Taylor rose and they sprung to their feet, saluting her. "Because that boy's peakin'. Sandy, you stay with him... I'll need Mollie tomorrow."
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