Fired and Walking Home — Until Two Helicopters Landed Shouting “Where’s the Nurse?!”
The Hangar
The Blackhawk didn’t so much land as it did drop out of the sky, the pilot flaring the rotors at the last possible second to cushion the impact on the wet tarmac of the O’Hare Air Force Reserve base. The side doors were open before the wheels settled.
Madeline’s stomach was still somewhere back over the Chicago River, but her mind had snapped into a cold, hard focus. It was the trauma state—a psychological space where emotions, rent payments, and insults from arrogant doctors didn’t exist. There was only the patient, the problem, and the solution.
“Go, go, go!” Captain Miller screamed, unbuckling her harness.
Madeline jumped onto the tarmac, her sneakers splashing in a puddle of jet fuel and rain. The noise was apocalyptic. Aside from the two Blackhawks, there were three massive C-130 transport planes and, looming in the distance like a white castle, the distinct humped silhouette of Air Force One.
But they weren’t heading for the plane. They were running toward a massive hangar 50 yards away. The hangar doors were open, spilling bright artificial light out into the gloomy afternoon. A perimeter of armored SUVs formed a steel wall around the entrance, lights flashing blue and red.
“Stay close to me,” Miller barked, grabbing her elbow to guide her through the maze of vehicles. “Don’t stop for anyone.”
As they approached the hangar entrance, a wall of men in black suits—Secret Service—blocked their path. They looked like statues carved out of paranoia and granite. One of them, a man with a buzzcut and an earpiece that looked like it was wired directly into his brain, stepped forward, hand raised.
“Hold it!” the agent shouted over the wind. “Who is this?”
“The manifest lists Dr. Sterling.”
“Sterling is compromised,” Miller yelled back, not slowing down. “This is the primary asset. Stand down, Agent Reynolds.”
“I can’t let a civilian without clearance near the package. Miller, we have a code red situation.”
Madeline stopped. She looked at Reynolds. She didn’t see a federal agent; she saw an obstacle between her and a dying child. She stepped out from behind Miller, her soaked scrubs clinging to her, her hair a disastrous mess, holding her soggy cardboard box like a shield.
“Agent,” Madeline said, her voice surprisingly loud, cutting through the noise.
“Captain Miller told me the patient has a crushed airway and oxygen sats in the low 80s. That was 5 minutes ago. If she’s trending down, she’s likely in the 60s now. That means hypoxic brain injury is starting right now. You can check my ID, you can let me go inside and save her brain, but you have about 30 seconds to decide before the President’s goddaughter becomes a vegetable.”
Reynolds stared at her. He looked at the badge clipped to her chest, the one that technically didn’t work anymore. He looked at the fire in her eyes. He stepped aside.
“Get her in.”
