REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U
REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF.
Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters.
Chapter Two
Africa.
The Badlands Desert,
The Kingdom Of Zarundi.
Sunday – Mid day.
It did not take long for them to find their quarry, indeed it would have been hard to miss the magnificent machine, shimmering in the heat haze rising off the desert floor in the otherwise flat and featureless plain, like some felled prehistoric creature.
The doctor brought the truck to a halt a little ways away, staring at the beautifully crafted helicopter, which looked even bigger now that it was on the ground, silent and still, the only blot on the pristine landscape.
She could feel the tension building inside her, her heart rate rising, her palms sweaty as she gripped the steering wheel, her body preparing her to face whatever may come.
She drew in a long, calming breath, and out of the corner of her eye caught the elderly priest watching her, a frown drawing down his dear old features.
She knew that he was worried.
She knew that he disapproved, but she also knew that he would follow her to the end of the earth, if only to keep reminding her of her recklessness and stupidity and that it would get her killed one day, and that he had been the one to tell her so!
He probably wondered why they were just sitting here, procrastinating and admiring the view.
It would not cross his mind that she was mentally preparing herself for whatever sickness or injury she might find once they opened up this particular Pandora's Box.
He probably hoped that she had seen the error of her ways and was having second thoughts.
Not quite, but she had to concede that she couldn't get that old adage, 'fools rush in where angels fear to tread …' out of her head.
She knew that they were indeed taking a great risk, that, any minute now men with guns could pour out of the chopper and force them to do Lord knew what, but she squashed that notion immediately, as it was ridiculous. They had nothing of value, indeed, nothing at all that anyone would consider even remotely worth their while holding them all under siege, or for ransom for.
All that they had was what they were willing to offer freely and unconditionally.
Food, water, shelter and medical assistance.
However, there was one other possibility.
That opening up that chopper would indeed be like opening up Pandora's Box, and she might be responsible for releasing some deadly contagion upon them all.
She wouldn't think of that, just like she couldn't think about the possibility that she was introducing some new virus or infection into the Keoma village whenever she went there to attend a birth or carry out a clinic.
If it happened, she would deal with it, just as she dealt with everything else the good Lord threw at her.
She had to trust her instincts, and they were all screaming at her that the people in that chopper were here because they needed some kind of help.
All was silent and still, the beautiful helicopter looking even more like a beached killer whale now, basking in the noon day sun, the tail rotor, moving gently with each little puff of desert breeze and the main rotor slowly winding down.
There was no sign of life from inside, and no sign of footprints in the surrounding sand, indicating that the crew had gotten out safely and perhaps set out on foot to find their way back to the Mission.
Taking another deep, calming breath, the doctor took her foot off the brake, engaged the clutch and allowed the truck to creep forward, then gathering speed she steered it in a wide circle around the stationary chopper, scrutinizing the hull, checking to see if there were any obvious signs of external damage, that might result in a fuel leak for instance, that could endanger the rescue party, before finally coming to a stop, nose to nose with unidentified aircraft.
Peering through the truck's windshield into the cockpit, the doctor could see no-one at the controls, and frowning, she opened up her door and slid out of the truck, the desert heat slamming into her immediately, taking her breath away, briefly, and causing perspiration to soak through the thin material of her blouse and to bead on her brow, before she walked slowly toward the chopper, aware of the priest and the two Sisters watching her anxiously, knowing that they would take their cue from her as to when it was safe for them to approach, and that she could not work efficiently or effectively with them crowding in on her.
She slowly approached the helicopter's right side, where she would have expected to find the pilot seated at the controls, and she had to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun against the window in the door, as she pressed her face up close against it to peer inside, letting out a little gasp of surprise as she found someone lying, half twisted in the seat, so that all she could see was back and shoulders, prone, slumped slightly sideways across both front seats.
Her heart began to race and her mouth suddenly went dry, as squinting in through the side window, she immediately became aware of the blood soaking through the pilot's thin grey flight suit on his or her left shoulder.
She immediately turned back to face the truck, beckoning to Father Paddy to bring her medical bag and he responded quickly, rushing over to join her and peer inside the cockpit over her shoulder.
"Oh good Lord!"
The doctor located the door release and the mechanism gave a gentle hiss as it disengaged and the door popped open, and then she was quickly pulling the door wide open and reaching inside, noting as she did so that her patient was a white male, of as yet indeterminate age, of slender build with short chestnut brown hair.
She fumbled around the Velcro fastening at the neck of his flight suit to try to find a pulse and quickly found the warm column of his neck and jammed her fingers against it, instantly feeling the rapid, thready flutter in his carotid artery.
"He's alive," she told Father Paddy, with obvious relief. "And it looks like he has a gunshot wound to his left shoulder," she reeled off, ducking further inside the cockpit now so that she could get a better look, not wanting to even attempt to move him until she knew exactly what it was she was dealing with.
"Holy Mother," the elderly priest murmured and crossed himself quickly.
The pilot was lying awkwardly, slumped over on his left arm, but what she could see of the limb gave her immediate cause for concern, a thin stream of blood, trickling in a slow by steady rhythm from the wound in his shoulder.
She knew instantly what that meant. He was bleeding from an artery, more blood pumping out of the wound with every beat of his heart.
There was no other obvious sign of injury, or violence, but she was curious about the way that he was sprawled out across the seat.
Logic told her that if he had simply blacked out at the controls after landing the chopper, his position would be more upright, the top half of his body slumped forward over the control stick.
Then she realised that he appeared to be reaching out for something, and it was then that she realised that he had something in his hand.
She let out a startled little gasp of surprise as she realised that it was another man's hand, and she then let out another little gasp as she suddenly recognised the ruby set signet ring that nestled on the fourth finger.
No, it couldn't be!
"Doctor?"
Father Paddy reached in to place his hand on her shoulder when he saw her start.
"There's someone else in the back," she told him by way of explanation, in a tight voice, pulling herself hastily back out of the cockpit, only to then duck right back inside, leaning carefully over the unconscious pilot, and with gentle, but somewhat unsteady fingers, she reached out and moved his head carefully, turning it so that she could get a look at his face.
She gave another startled exclamation and swiftly backed out of the cockpit, almost falling backward into Father Paddy, who steadied her, placing one hand on each of her shoulders, alarmed by the shocked expression on her now pale face and the speed of her retreat from the inside of the cockpit, almost as though she had been burned or bitten, or had an electric shock.
Her dark green eyes were big and filled with shock now, and for the life of him he could not understand what was happening.
She was a sensible, level headed young woman, and wasn't prone to hysteria or fits of the vapours, couldn't afford to be in her profession, but he had never seen her react in such a way before, and Lord knows he had seen her deal with all manner of bloody and ghastly sights over the years, without turning so much as a hair.
This was different.
It wasn't a reaction to the sight of the man's injury.
No.
It was a reaction to the sight of the man's face.
"Friends of yours, Dr Jarvis?" he arched an eyebrow inquiringly, but it was a needless question, for he could see the recognition in her eyes now, along with shock, and something else that he couldn't quite put a name to.
"Mackenzie!"
There was genuine concern in his voice, when she swayed alarmingly against him, but then she recovered her wits quickly, snapping out of the trance she had fallen into, and after dragging in a few deep breaths of the burning desert air, she pulled herself together, and gently pushed the priest out of her way as she quickly moved around the front of the chopper to the other side, cracked the door, and without hesitation climbed inside, moving to where an older, heavier set man, his head encased in a solid black helmet, lay slumped over the console before him, his left arm hanging limply down, the fingertips of his gnarled old hand resting gently in the palm and slightly curled up fingers of Stringfellow Hawke.
"I asked you a question, Mack," Father Paddy spoke impatiently now.
Mackenzie Jarvis continued with her initial visual examination of Dominic Santini, her heart beating erratically in her breast as she quickly located the gunshot wound to his back, noted his pallor, shallow, irregular breathing and clammy skin, all the time wondering how and why Hawke and Santini were here, in her backyard, after all these years, when she had thought never to see either of them again.
"I'm going to need your help to get them both out of here, Father," she ignored his questioning look, then let out a deep sigh of irritation when he continued to glare at her.
"They're Americans, Father. The pilot's name is Stringfellow Hawke. The man in back here is his, well, for want of a better word, surrogate father, Dominic Santini, and yes, I am acquainted with them. Hawke and I attended the same High School, briefly, a very long time ago, and no, I haven't seen him since we were teenagers and no, I didn't know they were going to drop by, or I might have baked a cake."
Her sarcasm was no lost on the elderly priest, but he bit back the angry response that was on the tip of his tongue, realising that she was genuinely disturbed to discover these two men from her youth, both badly injured and requiring her medical expertise, and he decided that he could wait for her to expand on her acquaintanceship with both of these men, once their conditions were stabilised and she had had time to come to terms with their presence here, and her feelings about that.
"Now, will you please get the Sister's over here. This man has a gunshot wound to the back. Looks like a through and through, but from the look of him, I'd say it caught the lung on the way out," she reported in businesslike tones now, then reached out to tug gently at the helmet that encased the older man's head, easing it off very gently and setting it aside carefully before continuing.
"Hawke's shoulder wound is quite serious. I think the bullet might still be in there, and it looks to have nicked an artery, so we'll have to be careful how we move him, or he could bleed out. They both need to get into surgery as soon as possible, Father …."
She spoke quickly, rattling off instructions, all the time she did so, her fingers busy with locating Dominic Santini's pulse, then gently probing around the entry and exit wounds, not allowing herself to stop and think about what misfortune had brought both men here, but thanking God that He had guided them to her, so that she could help them.
"Give me my medical bag please, and then I'd appreciate it if you would help me get Hawke upright, Father," she requested of the priest, in more gentle tones now, carefully kneeling down in the cramped engineering compartment so as to be able to place her hands easily on the unconscious pilot's shoulders, ready to push him up into a sitting position, which would help him to breathe more easily, and which in turn would make it easier for them to get him out of the cockpit, but she suddenly stopped, giving another little yelp of surprise, when her toes connected with something pliable, and she quickly glanced over her shoulder to see what was in her way, only to find another, dark skinned man, lying in a heap on the floor behind her.
She immediately turned around, mindful of banging her head against the console where Santini was still slumped, and reached out for the prostrate man's hand, grabbing his wrist to try to find the pulse there, but there was none.
"There's another man back here, Father," she told the elderly priest with a soft sigh, by way of explaining her erratic behaviour.
"Do you know him too?" he demanded irritably now, his sarcasm not lost on her either as she watched him turn around now, waving frantically at the two nuns in the back of the truck, summoning them to come and join them.
"No," she gave another deep sigh of impatience then. "He's African, mid twenties, and from the look of him, I'd say he was being held prisoner somewhere. His clothes are filthy and in tatters, and he looks like he hasn't been fed for months."
"Ah Be Jesus!"
"He's dead," she gave another deep sigh of resignation now, as the elderly priest stuck his head back in through the open door and peered deeply inside the cockpit. "Another gunshot wound," she concluded.
"Dear God, who are these people, and what the devil have they gotten us involved in!"
"I don't know, Father," And right now she could care less. "All I can tell you is that when I knew them, Hawke and Santini were good people, men of good conscience. Whatever they're doing here, it will only be for the greater good."
"I hope you're right."
"Just take my word for it, for now, Father, and help me to get them out of here."
The look which she gave him now would have turned a lesser man to Jell-O, and he recognised it immediately, from years of experience of working with her, as her no nonsense, 'don't cross me' look.
He had no idea who these two men were, or what they were to Mackenzie Jarvis, but seeing the expression on her face now, he had no doubt that anyone who got in the way of her bid to help them, would be very sorry.
Very sorry, indeed.
Yes, they were two very lucky fellows.
The Lord had obviously been with them, watching over them, and now that they had the good doctor batting for them, even the good Lord Himself had better watch out!
"Very well, doctor," Father Paddy gave a soft sigh of resignation. "Tell me what to do."
"Thank you, Father," she blessed him with a smile now, relief evident in her voice, and again he could not help wondering what these two men were to her. However, it was also obvious that he would get nothing out of her until she was satisfied that she had done all that she could to stabilize both men, and they were both out of danger and on the mend.
"Let's sit Hawke up, and then we'd better get Mr Santini out of here."
He handed her the battered old black medical bag, then working together, with infinite care, Father Paddy and the doctor eased the unconscious pilot, the man she had named as Stringfellow Hawke, up into a sitting position.
For the most part, the young man remained unconscious while they moved him, although his eyes did flutter open, briefly, but he did not show any signs of real awareness of what was happening to him, as he let out one, low moan of pain, before again succumbing to unconsciousness and slumping into the doctor's arms, as they tried to get him to stay upright in his seat.
Even to the priest's unqualified eye, it was obvious that his condition was not good.
Father Paddy Callaghan watched as Dr Jarvis again took the young man's pulse, then gently laid her hand against his brow, frowning deeply when she felt the heat and perspiration there, realising that it meant that his temperature was elevated and that he was possibly running a fever.
She deftly opened up her medical bag and pulled out the things she needed, slipping her stethoscope around her neck and laying the blood pressure testing equipment on the cabin floor beside her, then fished out one of the few precious thermometers she still had, and pulling open the front zipper fastening of the young man's flight suit, gently slipped the thermometer under his armpit, leaving it there for a few moments before withdrawing it and making a note of the reading.
Her expression grew grave, indicating to the elderly priest that the young man was indeed running a fever and that it was not a good sign.
It was obviously an indication of infection, a complication that they could do without.
Father Paddy observed the gentleness and tenderness with which Mackenzie Jarvis worked, concern and anxiety etched into her face, along with the concentration he was used to seeing there whenever she worked on a patient, marvelling at her grace and economy of movement, as she worked in the cramped cockpit.
He had watched her work many times before, had seen the compassion, frustration, puzzlement and often the grief and agony in her expression, whenever she faced something new or unusual.
She was always quiet, thoughtful, patient and sensitive, careful and considerate, but as he observed her now, listening to the young man's chest and heart through her stethoscope, and then taking his blood pressure, Father Paddy could not help thinking that he was seeing something different.
Outwardly, she appeared to be her usual calm, poised, professional self, but there was a hint of fear and desperation in her unusual green eyes, a tremor in her fingers whenever she had to reach out and touch the young man, and he could only guess at what was going on inside her head at that moment.
There was one thing that was blatantly obvious to the elderly priest.
The young man had been more to her than the passing acquaintance she had indicated, much more.
That notion piqued his curiosity, for in all the years he had known her, Mackenzie Jarvis had never once alluded to any kind of personal relationship in her past.
Indeed, whenever he had broached the subject, she had always quickly brushed him off with some nonsense about no-one ever having shown any interest in her, and finished off by saying that she had always been far too busy with her education and her career for personal relationships, and he had had to take her at her word.
Now, he began to wonder.
She was hiding it quite well, but the priest knew that she was more than a little flustered and unsure of herself, and he had never seen any other patient have quite the same effect on her.
Indeed, she wasn't even this reticent when she was required to touch the Royal personage of the King of the Keoma tribe himself.
However, whatever emotional battle was raging inside her, the professional medic in her soon won over and came to the fore, and she worked quietly and diligently, ignoring his curious and speculative glances, capturing her bottom lip between her teeth and chewing on it nervously as, taking his blood pressure, she watched the mercury rise and fall on the gauge and noted the reading, continuing to frown.
They were quickly joined at the chopper by the two Sisters, Ann and Catherine and her initial examination of the unconscious pilot concluded, Dr Jarvis moved out of the way, making room, quickly installing Sister Ann in her place, to hold a pressure bandage to the young pilot's shoulder wound, hoping to stem the rate of blood loss until she could get him back to the Infirmary, instructing the nun to keep a close eye on his breathing and to let her know immediately if he seemed to be in difficulty, or if he seemed to be showing signs of coming around.
As she moved out of the cockpit and summoned Sister Catherine to follow her into the engineering compartment, Dr Mackenzie Jarvis was already mentally running through the treatment that Hawke would require, having chastised herself sternly for her childish reluctance to touch him.
He was a man, just like any other, and that was all there was to it.
So why was her heart beating so hard and so fast?
Why were her hands shaking and her stomach tying its self in knots?
It had been nearly fifteen years since she had last laid eyes on him, for crying out loud! She shouldn't still feel this way.
She drew in a long, calming breath and fell back on her old tried and trusted method of getting her thoughts and her feelings under control, calling up to mind all the things her patient would need when she got him back to the Infirmary.
Antibiotics for sure, to fight any infection in his shoulder, and the cause of the fever he was running, fluids to re-hydrate him, and blood to replace what he had already lost, and would continue to lose until she had him in to surgery and could tie off the artery, chewing on her bottom lip, nervously, as she tried not to let her companions see just how concerned she was about the young pilot and his mentor.
They were going to need a lot of blood, and she didn't know if they had enough.
The Infirmary did not have the facilities to store vast quantities, but they did have a small stock of O negative in the blood bank, a small specially constructed refrigerated safe, which she routinely restocked with fresh supplies donated by herself and some of the Sisters and which she kept for emergency surgical procedures.
However, both men required surgery, and Hawke was going to need a lot more blood than Santini, if she was right about that shoulder wound.
Sister Eve would no doubt have a blood drive, asking for volunteers to donate, and the Sisters would all respond positively, as they always did, glad to be of assistance in an emergency, but Mackenzie Jarvis didn't know if they would be able to draw enough, and process it quickly enough in their small lab, with their limited equipment and resources, to be of any help to Stringfellow Hawke.
A shiver suddenly ran down her spine that had nothing to do with her fears for the life of the young pilot.
Dammit, why did even thinking his name make her knees turn to jelly!
This was ridiculous.
She had to pull herself together, get a grip on herself.
Hawke needed the calm, level headed professional doctor who was Mackenzie Jarvis, not the shy, awkward, self doubting, clumsy, gauche teenager he had last seen, and she would need to be at her best, because he deserved that, and if she wasn't, if she faltered, she would be faced with the very real possibility of having to deal with the one thing that she had truly dreaded.
Watching the man that she loved, die.
Powerless to do anything to stop it.
That would not happen.
It was simply not an option.
She would move heaven and earth to ensure that Stringfellow Hawke did not die, that he rose from his hospital bed and flew off back to wherever the hell it was he had come from, and out of her life once more.
She would fight until her last breath to make sure that he survived, for while he was still alive, while he still walked the earth, she had a reason to go on believing that everything that she had done since that fateful night on a Californian beach fifteen years before, had been right, had been justified, for the best.
Getting hold of her errant thoughts, Mackenzie Jarvis turned her thoughts away from the past, fixing them instead on doing a quick mental inventory of all the things she was going to need, as she moved closer toward where Dominic Santini lay slumped over a control panel, and found herself coming up short, for they were all the things she knew to be in short supply.
Damn.
Great timing all around!
Oh well, it looked as if she and the Sisters were going to have to get creative, again!
And she was definitely going to have to make the Nairobi trip, once Hawke and Santini were patched up and stable, and suddenly the prospect of a night or two away from the Mission wasn't quite so distasteful.
Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if she was thousands of miles away, in another country, when Stringfellow Hawke regained consciousness.
Better, for both of them.
The past was just that, and better left alone, but she suspected that Stringfellow Hawke was not the kind of man to walk away from anything easily.
Fighting the desperate need to cast one last glance back over her shoulder at Hawke, Mackenzie Jarvis turned her attention to Dominic Santini now, telling herself that she had done all that she possibly could for the younger man, and that he was in good hands, for now, and that his old friend Dom needed her help just as badly right now.
She was grateful to Sister Catherine for her help in tending Dominic Santini, despite the cramped conditions in which they found themselves, the Sister helping her to gently move the heavier man as she repeated the process of taking temperature, pulse and blood pressure, and listening to his heart and chest, confirming that the wound was indeed a through and through gunshot, and from the restricted breath sounds she could hear, that the bullet had indeed just grazed the lung.
She again installed Sister Catherine to apply dressings to Santini's wounds, while she went back to check on the African man, making certain that he was indeed dead, and trying to work out what his condition had been before he had been shot in the back, left side, the bullet having passed straight through him, and also noting signs of ill treatment, possibly torture, an extended period of malnutrition and fever.
She would have to do a full autopsy, not only to confirm the exact cause of death, but to determine his general medical condition at the time of his death.
At last, they were finally ready to move the men to the back of the truck.
Firstly, the doctor and the priest removed the dead African, because this would allow them more room to manoeuvre when releasing Dominic Santini from his seat in the rear compartment.
They carried the dead man to the back of the truck, carefully laying him widthways against the back of the driver's cab and respectfully covering him with a thin blanket, then, leaving Father Paddy to say a quick prayer for his immortal soul, Dr Jarvis returned to Dominic Santini's side, quickly ran through his observations once more and declared him stable enough to be moved.
It took all four of them to gently and very carefully extricate Dominic Santini from the rear engineering compartment, and place him length ways against the side of the flatbed truck, leaving room along side him to place Hawke.
Then, thankfully, at last, they were going back for Hawke.
Left unattended, he had again slumped in his seat, toppling slightly over to his left, and this time, without pause or hesitation, Mackenzie Jarvis clambered in to the seat beside him, positioning herself so that she could take the weight of his upper body, as they eased the unconscious younger man out toward where Father Paddy and the two Sisters were waiting to lift out his legs and take the rest of his weight as they carried him quickly to the back of the truck and laid him down beside his companion, Dominic Santini.
Breathless and sweating heavily, Mackenzie Jarvis gathered up her medical equipment and stuffed it all back in to the battered old black medical bag that had been her only faithful and constant companion all these years and hurried out of the chopper's cockpit, pausing only long enough to ensure that both doors were secured, before heading back to the parked flatbed truck, needing to check on Hawke's condition now that he had been moved.
What she found made her stomach churn and her heart lurch in her chest.
His blood pressure had dropped, his temperature had risen by another degree, and his breathing was getting very shallow and labored. His colour wasn't good and there was still a lot of blood leaking out around the edges of the pressure bandage on his shoulder, and with her heart in her mouth, Mackenzie Jarvis knew that he was deteriorating quickly and they did not have any time to lose, or there was a real chance that she could lose him.
"What about that monster?" Father Paddy indicated to the sleek, beautiful black and white helicopter as he came up beside her, sweating and breathing hard too after their recent exertions, noting the look of horror on her face as she returned her blood pressure equipment to her bag.
He knew that she was impatient to get to work properly on her patients, but his question was reasonable, under the circumstances.
He had no idea what they all meant, but he had seen a few of the dials and instrument gauges in the cockpit, and their implication terrified him.
She was indeed a killing machine, and in the wrong hands ….
He dreaded to think.
"What about it?" she responded impatiently, obviously distracted then finally looked up from her bag and noted the look of concern on his dear face.
"I hardly think the Keoma will try to steal it …."
Her voice trailed away as she saw the expression on his face change to one of disbelief at her innocence and naivety and suddenly she could not suppress a smile.
He had a point.
They would probably strip it bare, once they had overcome their fear of getting close to it, but she really couldn't see that there was much that she could do about it right now.
She had other more pressing matters to concern herself with.
"I don't suppose you could fly it?"
"No, Father," she sighed softly. "Absolutely, categorically, no. Even if I were so inclined, and felt comfortable enough and confident enough to climb into the right seat, somehow I don't think our friends here would be very happy about it."
She blotted the perspiration gathering on her brow with the back of her hand now, and pushed a stray tendril of her hair back behind her ear.
"Besides," she glanced back to where the majestic helicopter sat, silent and still, rotors bobbing gently in the slight desert breeze. "This is not just your ordinary, run of the mill chopper, Father."
She had seen some of the control panels and consoles in the cockpit, and in the engineering section in front of and surrounding Dominic Santini, including panels that were clearly marked with words like Cannon, Chain Guns, and Missile Command Systems, and knew that because of inexperience and unfamiliarity with the controls, she could quite easily, inadvertently blow them all to kingdom come by pressing the wrong button.
It also seemed reasonable to her to assume that a machine like this, so extraordinary, and quite possibly unique, would be well protected, probably fitted with some kind of anti-tampering device, which was probably hooked up to some self destruct mechanism, to ensure that it did not fall into the wrong hands.
"We all might get more than we bargained for."
"I'll say!" he rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation, and she realised that he too had seen the controls and realised their significance. "All the more reason not to leave it out in the open, wouldn't you say?"
Again, he had a point.
But, again, she had other more important matters to attend to.
"Father, Hawke and Santini are my main priority right now. We'll figure something out later. Right now I need to get these men to the Infirmary, stat!"
"Then go, child, and I'll wait here until Sister Eve can send some boys out to help me to haul the machine back to the Mission," he offered.
"Like hell! Now who's crazy? You'll do no such thing, Father," she chastised sternly. "Aside from the fact that you'll give yourself a hernia, after his little shenanigans back there, it could take Sister Eve quite some time to persuade the King to let us borrow some of his warriors, and to reassure him that they won't get eaten by this monster, if they poke their noses out of their huts," she reminded impatiently.
"She'll just have to take care of herself, for now, and we'll just have to hope for the best, Father," she paused to take a breath and seek inspiration.
"Look, when I'm done making my patients comfortable and stable, maybe we could come back out here. I think I could just about manage to steer her, if you would drive the truck? We could attach a rope and tow her, slowly, back to the barn, where the worst that could happen would be that her being there would put the hens off their laying for a day or two," she suggested helpfully.
"Well, I suppose it will have to do."
"Amen," she let out a gentle sigh then walked around him, watching as he secured the tailgate of the truck before pulling open the driver's door.
"C'mon Father, let's get moving. It's too hot to be standing around shooting the breeze, and I've still got a lot of work ahead of me."