Chapter 1 - Angel 6
At Pine Harbor Naval Medical Center, Annie Keller had become the subject of a joke that never seemed to end.
For 7 months, she had worked the night shift without complaining about the way her colleagues treated her. Physicians laughed at her nervous manner. Junior corpsmen imitated her quiet voice. Someone had begun calling her Mouse, and the nickname followed her from the nurses' station to the supply rooms and into the emergency department.
Annie rarely answered.
She kept her eyes lowered, completed her assignments, and avoided drawing attention to herself. Her hands sometimes trembled when someone watched her too closely, a detail that only encouraged further ridicule.
On a stormy night in northern Maine, Dr. Warren Teague found another opportunity.
"Careful, Mouse. Try not to drop the whole tray this time."
He laughed before finishing the sentence.
Two corpsmen at the desk joined him.
Annie lowered an instrument tray onto the cart.
Her fingers shook slightly.
"See that?" Teague said. "Church mouse nerves. Quiet Annie, ladies and gentlemen. 7 months on the night shift, and she has said maybe 40 words."
"41," said Danny Ortiz, the youngest corpsman. "I counted."
The men laughed again.
Annie did not respond.
She adjusted the tray, keeping her head low. Several strands of dark brown hair had escaped her untidy bun, but she made no attempt to fix them.
Pine Harbor Naval Medical Center stood at the end of a long county road in northern Maine. It was a small military hospital with 40 beds and a modest emergency department. The nearest major trauma center was approximately 90 minutes away by road.
Above the entrance, a sign carried the words Service, Sacrifice, Heal.
During the night shift, those principles did not always influence how employees treated one another.
It was shortly after 2:00 a.m.
A storm had been building since dusk. Heavy rain struck the windows, and strong wind rattled the ambulance bay doors.
Teague leaned back in his chair.
He was 44 years old, tall, and accustomed to controlling the atmosphere of the department. On his own shift, few people challenged his decisions or behavior.
He looked toward Annie.
"Hey, Mouse, fetch me a coffee. A real one this time. And do not spill it on the chart."
"Yes, doctor."
Her reply was barely audible.
Teague smiled toward the corpsmen, pleased by her obedience.
Annie walked to the breakroom.
Her navy scrubs were slightly too large. A thin scar crossed the area above her right eyebrow, and several old shrapnel scars formed a pale ridge along her left forearm.
She generally kept that arm covered.
The breakroom was empty.
Annie placed a cup beneath the coffee machine and watched the dark liquid begin to fill it.
A small plastic toy mouse sat on the counter.
Someone had left a similar toy on her locker the previous week. Another had appeared on her chair. Now 1 had been placed beside the coffee machine.
She did not throw it away.
She never did.
Instead, she reached beneath the collar of her scrub top and touched a thin chain resting against her chest.
Two military identification tags hung from it.
One belonged to Annie.
The other carried the name Daniel M.
She closed her fingers around them briefly.
Then she released the chain and concentrated on breathing.
In for 4 counts.
Out for 4.
She had been living this way for 7 months.
Pine Harbor was not a place she had been assigned against her wishes. She had deliberately chosen the small hospital, its isolated location, and its relatively quiet night shifts.
She wanted to work somewhere people did not ask about her earlier life.
On difficult nights, she counted ceiling tiles to occupy her thoughts.
There were 42 in the breakroom and 60 in the hallway.
The numbers helped her keep unwanted memories from taking over.
Linda Marsh entered while Annie was waiting for the coffee.
Linda was 61, the oldest nurse on the floor, with silver hair and an expression that usually showed both fatigue and kindness.
"Do not let him get to you, honey."
"He does not," Annie replied.
Linda studied her.
"I have watched you for 7 months. You never look at the monitors. But you always know when a patient is about to crash."
Annie gave a small smile.
"Lucky guess."
Linda made a quiet sound of disbelief but did not press her.
Annie carried the coffee back to the nurses' station.
Teague accepted it without looking at her.
"Thanks, Mouse."
The clock showed 2:51 a.m.
Outside, the storm intensified. The lights flickered once, then steadied.
Teague began telling the corpsmen about a patient who had swallowed a golf ball.
They laughed.
Annie stood beside the supply cart, restocking gauze with careful, efficient movements.
Her hands were no longer shaking.
Nobody noticed.
At 2:58 a.m., the department became unusually quiet.
Annie sensed the change before anyone else reacted.
She lifted her eyes toward the ambulance bay doors, then looked at the clock.
At approximately 3:00 a.m., the radio on the trauma desk crackled.
Static filled the speaker.
Then a man's voice emerged through wind and engine noise.
"Pine Harbor, Pine Harbor, this is Reaper 2. Inbound by ground. ETA 8 minutes. One critical, penetrating chest trauma. Multiple fragmentation wounds. Request trauma team standing by."
Teague rolled his eyes.
"Reaper 2? What is that, a scout troop?"
Danny picked up the handset.
"Reaper 2, Pine Harbor. Say again your unit."
The reply was interrupted by static.
"Negative, Pine Harbor. We need your best medic at the doors. Repeat, we need—"
The transmission broke apart.
Then the man's voice returned, louder and more strained.
"Does anyone there answer to Angel 6?"
The instrument tray slipped from Annie's hands.
It struck the tiled floor, scattering metal instruments across the room.
Everyone turned.
Annie stood motionless.
Her face had gone pale, and her eyes were fixed on the radio.
"Look at that," Teague said with a laugh. "Mouse dropped it again."
Nobody joined him.
Linda watched Annie closely.
Danny stopped smiling.
Annie bent down and collected the tray.
Her hands were completely steady.
She placed it back on the cart.
Then she straightened.
Her shoulders moved back, her chin lifted, and she looked directly at Dr. Teague.
"Doctor, how many staff do we have in the building right now?"
Teague blinked.
"What?"
"Staff. Right now."
He hesitated.
"Me, you, Linda, Danny, 2 more corpsmen. Dr. Hale is on call, but he is 40 minutes out in this weather."
"Because 8 minutes is not much time," Annie replied.
She turned toward Danny.
"Trauma Bay 1. Rapid infuser on. Fluids warmed. Massive transfusion cooler open."
Then toward Linda.
"2 chest tube trays and a 32-French tube."
She addressed the other corpsmen.
"Everyone else, gloves and gowns."
For a moment, nobody moved.
"Now."
Danny responded first.
Linda followed, and the others hurried toward the trauma bay.
Teague stood so abruptly that his chair rolled backward and struck the wall.
"Excuse me. You do not give orders in my ER."
"Then give them," Annie answered.
Teague opened his mouth but did not speak immediately.
He glanced at the radio.
"This is a prank. Some stunt from the base."
"It is not," Annie said. "Listen to the voice."
Another transmission interrupted them.
"Cole's pressure is dropping. 70/40. Move it."
Teague's expression changed.
He did not issue the instructions Annie had requested, but he also did not prevent the staff from carrying out hers.
May you like
Annie walked toward Trauma Bay 1.
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