Petty Officer Garrett Doyle wrapped the chain around both gloved fists. The links bit into his skin.”I can’t, sir,” he said. He won’t take my command.
Nobody touches the senior chief. Senior Chief Mason Trent lay flat on the wet floor with his eyes closed and sweat shining in his beard. His vest was still strapped on.
A patch across it read US Navy. The monitor above him showed 72, 98, and 16. Good numbers, calm numbers.
Nobody in the room believed them. Red and blue lights pulsed through the glass doors behind the crowd. Rolling beds lay tipped on their sides where the team had pushed them aside.
Spilled saline shone on the floor. Everyone in the room had gone still, and every face wore the same fear. Iris Callahan stood beside the supply cart with a fistful of gloves, and she did not move.
She was 33, a trauma nurse at Sebrook Regional Medical Center in Port Alder, Virginia. 5 years on this floor, navy scrubs, dark hair pinned in a loose bun, sleeves always tugged down to the wrist. In 5 years, nobody had ever seen her forearms.
