The EMT fires questions at him while he wraps Harm's hands. Most are about Mac, the answers passed on to the chopper crew in a kind of medical shorthand that means little to Harm. The rest of the trip passes in a blur. Harm takes his unseeing gaze off the window just once - when the EMT cuts away the ragged remains of his shirt.
"Looks like you took half the skin off your back." Tearing open a fresh package of antiseptic wipes, he dabs at the scrapes. "What the hell were you thinking?"
Harm shakes his head. He can't explain, nor does he care to try. Instead he concentrates on Mac-on the way she looks when he tells her he loves her, the way it feels to hold her in his arms, and the way she has always, always, been there for him.
And now, when it really counts, he can't do a damned thing for her. He aches with the knowledge. He should be holding her hand, talking to her, urging her to hang on while the doctors do their work.
If only they'd left the hotel a little earlier. They'd be on a plane right now. She'd be reading a book and he'd be going over a case, the armrest between them pushed out of the way to give them a few extra inches of space. He'd have his legs stretched into the aisle because there was never enough room between rows, and she'd shake her head at him when the flight attendant told him he was in the way of the beverage cart and could he please move his feet? Or maybe she'd doze off like she sometimes did these days. Her head would settle on his shoulder and he'd have to rescue her book before it slid to the floor. Then he'd take her hand in his and rest his cheek against her hair and let his own eyes close.
The siren cuts off, thrusting Harm back into the nightmare. The ambulance doors swing open, and he blinks against an unexpected flood of sunlight. The summer storm, as brief as it was fierce, has apparently moved on.
The emergency room is crowded. Cold, wet, and disoriented, he swivels his head left, right, left again, struggling to find his balance on a pitching deck. Someone says his name, and he finds himself following a set of pale blue scrubs down the hall. The scrubs have little black airplanes on them. He ponders that - why airplanes? Shouldn't it be stethoscopes or syringes or something? - while the nurse helps him onto the exam table. Mac would like the airplanes. She'd say it was karma.
"A doctor will be with you shortly." Somehow she manages to sound both cheerful and soothing. She finishes checking his blood pressure and jots something down on her clipboard.
"Wait!"
Already on her way out the door, the nurse turns, a question in her eyes.
"My wife. MedSTAR brought her in ahead of me. I need to know what's going on."
The nurse, Paula according to her nametag, nods. The airplanes on her sleeve take flight as she lifts her clipboard and takes out a pen. "What's her name?"
"Mac-" He shakes his head. "I mean Sarah. Sarah Rabb." Two years of marriage and he still isn't used to saying it. To him she'll always be Mac.
"Did she have ID?"
"I don't know." He shrugs, at a loss. "She's slim. 5'7". Brown hair and eyes. She's wearing a-" He searches his memory. Those last moments at the hotel seem so far away. "A blue shirt. And jeans." Snug jeans. Crisp and new. And the shirt had an enticing v-neck that kept drawing his attention away from their conversation. "I gave the EMT her name on the ride in." He can still feel the curve of her hips against his palms, still see the challenge in her eyes. He can't remember what they were talking about, but he remembers that look.
Paula nods and makes a note on her clipboard. "I'll see what I can find out."
"Thank you."
No sooner does Paula leave than another woman takes her place. Business clothes this time. She has short, close-cropped hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and an ominous nest of papers pinned to a worn clipboard. There's an air of forced friendliness about her that raises the hackles at the back of Harm's neck.
"Let's get this paperwork out of the way, shall we?" Then, with a glance at Harm's hands and a slight frown, "Maybe you should let me do the writing."
She pulls up a stool and sits, pencil-thin eyebrows raised inquisitively. "Full name?"
"I'll tell you whatever you want to know," he says, "just as soon as I find my wife." He starts to get to his feet, then swallows a frustrated oath when the woman calmly positions herself between him and the door.
"Paula's checking on that for you." The woman shifts closer, head tilted to one side, a determined glint in her eyes. "Now. Name?"
By the time a doctor finally shows up Harm is about ready to jump out of his skin.
The doc introduces himself as Jeremy Bates, settles onto the newly vacated stool, and looks at Harm's hands. "They're all talking about you out there," he says. "Apparently you tried to rip the windshield out of your wife's car with your bare hands." He shakes his head. "They can't decide if that makes you a hero or a fool."
Though he really doesn't care, Harm asks anyway. "What do you think?"
Doctor Bates finishes unwrapping Harm's left hand and gives a long, low whistle. "Well," he says thoughtfully, "I think it means you love your wife." He examines the cuts. "It looks like you're going to need three sets of stitches on this one. He points. "Here, here and here. Ever had stitches before?"
"Once or twice."
"Right then. You know how this works. A little local anesthetic, a little needle and thread, and that's that. Let's see your other hand. Might as well have all the bad news at once."
There are a few moments of silence followed by Harm's quiet hiss as the last of the gauze pulls away from his torn skin.
"Okay. Just two sets of stitches here, but you came damn near to slicing your thumb off." He gestures at a wide cut that digs deep into the webbing between Harm's thumb and first finger. "Can you move your thumb?"
Harm does, and the doctor nods in satisfaction. "Missed the tendon. That's a lucky break."
"Doesn't feel lucky to me." It takes every bit of self-control Harm can muster to sit still. "Just do what you have to do, Doc. I need to find my wife."
"I imagine you do. Right, then. Let's get this over with."
The stitches seem to take forever. Doctor Bates talks the whole time he works. Does anything else hurt? Any dizziness? Headache? Stomach pain? Vision problems? After he finishes stitching and wrapping Harm's hands, he bandages his back, palpates his abdomen, shines a light in his eyes, and pronounces himself satisfied. He writes out a prescription for painkillers, warns Harm that he's going to be sore for a few days, gives him a lecture about wound care, hands him a worn cotton gown to replace the shredded shirt, and finally, finally, sets him free with a jovial "Right then, you're good to go," that sets Harm's teeth on edge.
He beelines to the nursing station, shoving the paperwork into his pocket as he goes. He'll worry about the soggy prescription later. Paula's at the desk, dark head bent over a chart. "My wife?"
She looks up. He sees recognition in her eyes. "I'll see if she's in the system yet."
There's another interminable wait while Paula's fingers fly over the keyboard. Then a nod.
"She's in surgery. That way." She points. "And to the right. Just follow the signs. One of the nurses on the unit can give you more information."
He's already moving away. A low-voiced feminine conversation follows him down the hall.
"He's gonna scare the crap out of the surgical staff."
"Doubt it. Underneath all that grime, he's hot."
A third voice chimes in doubtfully over the ring of a telephone. "How can you tell?"
At any other time, the discussion would amuse Harm. He'd tell Mac about it and she'd laugh. She'd tell him he was too tall to be hot, or his shoulders were too broad, or he was too much of a smart-ass. He'd give her a threatening glare, but that would only make her laugh again. Then she'd lean in close, give him a sultry smile, and tell him he was welcome to try to change her mind when they got home.
He shakes his head as the second woman's last words reach his ears.
"His wife is a lucky woman."
No, he thinks. He's the lucky one.
There's a mural on the wall. It's generically cheerful, the way hospital artwork usually is-a rainbow of hot air balloons suspended in a brilliant blue sky. His gaze lingers on a red and yellow balloon a little apart from the others. He'd ridden in one just like it almost a year ago. Mac had insisted that it would be the perfect way to celebrate his birthday. He'd complained halfheartedly, arguing that he should be allowed to sleep late on his birthday, but Mac had overridden him, and at 0400 on the appointed morning she'd dragged him out of bed and pushed him into the shower.
When the sun rose, painting the sky in glorious shades of red and orange, they were high above the island, drifting east on a tropical breeze.
"Red sky at morning, sailors take warning," he observed with a wry smile. "I told you we shouldn't have come."
She'd been gazing up at the interior of the balloon, watching the play of sunlight on the vibrantly hued fabric, but at his words she snorted and elbowed him in the ribs. "Admit it," she said with a teasing smile. "You love it."
Her eyes sparkled with mischief, her skin glowed in the early morning sun, and love hit him the way it still did sometimes, sucker-punch style, making his chest go tight with the effort just to breathe. He pulled her close.
"You're right," he said. "I do love it." Bending his head, he gave her a gentle kiss. "Thank you."
They'd finished out the ride with Mac tucked into the crook of his arm, her head resting against his shoulder, her body nestled into his.
He hadn't wanted it to end.
An elevator pings nearby. Harm pushes the memory away and rounds the corner to the nursing station.
"I'm looking for my wife," he says. "Sarah Rabb. MedSTAR brought her in about an hour ago."
One of the nurses picks up a chart, glances over it, and nods. "She's in surgery," he says. "If you'd like to wait in the lounge I'll get somebody to come and talk to you."
Harm doesn't want to wait in the lounge. He doesn't want to wait at all. But he's been through this often enough to know he doesn't have a choice.
"Where can I get some coffee?"
"Vending machine at the end of the hall. Cafeteria-" The nurse pulls out a photocopied map. Points. "- is here."
"Thank you."
Five minutes later he's pacing the corridor, coffee carefully balanced in one gauze-covered hand. He scans the hallway. Every door that opens, every squeak of shoe-leather, every whine from a rubber-wheeled cart attracts intense scrutiny. It's exhausting, and it isn't long before Harm drops the untouched coffee in a garbage can and reaches for his cell phone, relieved to find that it still works despite the accident and his still wet jeans.
"Roberts." The voice on the other end of the line is reassuringly familiar.
"Bud. It's Harm."
"Captain!" There's no mistaking Bud's pleased surprise. "I thought you'd be halfway back to Hawaii by now."
"We were supposed to be." Harm swallows hard against a sudden terrible tightness in his throat. "Bud, we're at Washington Center."
There's a brief, heavy pause. "Is everything all right, sir?"
"Mac and I got sucked into a pileup on the beltway. Some idiot cut off an eighteen wheeler at eighty miles an hour. Turned the highway into a fucking fur ball."
Though Harm isn't exactly a Boy Scout, it's a word he rarely uses, and the fact that he does so now stuns Bud into temporary silence.
Then … "Are you okay?"
"Few cuts and bruises. I'll be fine."
"What about Colonel MacKenzie?"
"I don't know yet. They brought her in on MedSTAR. She's in surgery now." He hesitates, takes a breath. "She rolled, Bud. They had to use the Jaws of Life to get her out."
"Oh my God."
It's almost too much. Harm clenches his jaw and forces himself to take a long, slow breath. He won't break. He can't. He has to hold it together for Mac and the baby.
Bud's voice seems far away. "How can I help?"
Sometimes there's refuge in the mundane. "Would you see if you can find out what they did with our cars? With everything that was going on, I didn't even think about it, and we need our briefcases and luggage. You should be able to get SATO to help you sort it all out. If you run into trouble, just give me a call on my cell."
"I'll see what I can find out, sir. Is there anything else?"
"Not yet, but I appreciate the offer."
"And you said you're at Washington Center?"
"Right."
"Why not Bethesda?"
"Washington was closer, and they needed MedSTAR for Mac."
A nurse taps him on the shoulder, gestures to his cell phone, and shakes her head, pointing to a sign on the wall. "Cell phone use prohibited in Surgery and Trauma Care"
"I understand," Bud says, "I'll see what I can find out and call you back."
"Thanks."
With an apologetic shrug at the nurse Harm switches his phone to vibrate and slides it back into his pocket. She turns away, and he goes back to pacing the floors. He needs to call Mattie and his mother. Their CO's, too. Hell, notifying them is probably the first thing he should have done. But it'll wait. He isn't leaving the area until he gets some answers.
When he makes the turn at the far end of the corridor he sees a father pushing a stroller toward him. A little boy-two? three?-with an unruly mop of dark hair and bright, curious eyes kicks his legs against the footrest. He's wearing a red shirt with the words "I'm the Big Brother" emblazoned across the front, and in his right hand he holds a small, plastic airplane. As his father pushes him down the hall the boy makes long sweeping passes with the toy, his small voice doing its level best to imitate the sound of the propeller.
On their first anniversary he and Mac had taken ten days leave and come back to get Sarah out of storage. He'd checked her out and tuned her up, and they'd hopscotched her across the continent together, landing at small, out of the way airfields and sleeping in rented cabins, bed and breakfasts, and once in an empty corn field under a full moon.
One of the places they'd landed, a small town somewhere in Kansas, was in the middle of their annual county fair when he and Mac arrived. He loved country fairs with their giant vegetables and rickety circus rides, but when he asked Mac about it, she tried to beg off.
"Come on, Mac. It'll be fun."
"Stale popcorn, greasy hot dogs, and smelly farm animals. No way."
"Where's your sense of adventure?" He caught her hand in his and tugged her along, laughing when she dragged her feet. "We have to at least ride the Ferris wheel."
"The last Ferris wheel I rode was so rusty it wobbled. That isn't adventure, Harm. It's a death wish."
"You chicken?"
That did it. Nothing got Mac riled up faster than an attack on her courage. Half an hour later they were sharing cotton candy and waiting for their turn on the ancient Ferris wheel. Mac swallowed, licked her lips, and bumped her hip against his.
"If this thing kills us," she said, "it'll be your fault."
"If this thing kills us we'll be dead, and it won't matter whose fault it was."
"Smart ass."
"Wimp."
With a roll of her eyes, she stepped up to the gate and handed the attendant their tickets, her shoulders lifting in a fatalistic shrug.
"I'm holding you responsible for whatever happens up there," she said when they were seated, the gate locked behind them.
"Whatever happens?" he asked, eyebrow raised.
She nodded firmly. "Whatever happens."
When they inevitably got stopped at the top she gave him her best "I told you so" look. He laughed, kissed her and asked her if she thought the lights spread out below them looked like stars. She snorted and called him a sap, but she kissed him back anyway.
Then she told him she wanted to have a baby.
"I thought that was why we weren't using birth control."
"No," she said gravely. "I mean I want to start fertility treatments."
He looked at her for a long, serious moment, kissed her again, and nodded. "Okay."
She'd left him on the California coast, preferring a four hour flight on a commercial jet to sixteen hours in an antique biplane. When he'd staggered into Honolulu eighteen hours later, bleary eyed and triumphant, she'd been waiting for him at the airport. He'd gathered her close and inhaled the fresh clean scent of her hair and thought that nothing could ever be as incredible as that moment.
Nothing, he thinks now, except knowing that she's going to be okay.
He makes another turn and heads back down the hall just in time to see a doctor emerge from the surgery wing. Still in scrubs, her mask hanging around her neck, the woman looks tired. He's afraid to guess what that means.
She approaches the nursing station. There's a brief, whispered conversation, and then she's coming his way. He refuses to think it could be bad news, but he braces himself anyway-back to the wall, feet spread wide. Please God. Let her be okay.
"Mr. Rabb?"
He swallows and summons a nod.
She gestures to a door on Harm's left. "Why don't we step in here."
Harm finds neither her tone nor her words encouraging. He steps to the side, pushes the door open, and gestures for her to precede him.
She waits for the door to close before speaking.
"I'm Doctor Carmichael," she says, offering her hand. "I'm a member of your wife's trauma team."
He accepts the offered handshake and waits for her to go on.
"Your wife's a fighter, Mr. Rabb."
"Yes, she is. And it's Captain. Captain Harmon Rabb, Jr."
Respect blooms in her eyes. "Understood."
"How's Mac?"
"I won't lie to you, Captain. She's in rough shape. She has a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and an assortment of cuts and bruises. But it's the internal injuries that worry me."
"And those are?"
"She broke a rib in the accident. Ordinarily it's a fairly straightforward injury, but this rib punctured your wife's right lung. She's holding her own for now, but it'll be touch and go for the next twenty-four hours."
"She's going to be okay, though, right?"
It seems like an eternity passes before the doctor answers.
"Barring complications, she should make a full recovery."
Harm allows himself a brief, heartfelt prayer of gratitude. "And the baby?"
Carmichael's sigh is long and deep. "First let me say that it's a damned good thing you let us know she was pregnant before she got here. If we'd gone in blind, she probably would have miscarried."
"And now… ?"
The doctor's expression, already serious, turns grave. "Now I'd say we have about a twenty percent chance of saving the pregnancy." The stethoscope that hangs around her neck catches a random beam of light and reflects it into Harm's eyes. "Your wife has the best possible care, Captain Rabb. There's a top-notch team of specialists with her, and you can be assured that they're doing everything in their power to preserve the pregnancy." Her expression grim, Dr. Carmichael shakes her head. "But at fourteen weeks your wife is barely out of her first trimester. And at her age, and with her medical history, it's a high risk pregnancy even without the accident." There's a kind of guarded distance in her voice when she continues. "You should prepare yourself for the worst."
It's devastating news, and it hits him with the force of a ramp strike. He fights both tears and a simultaneous urge to slam his fist into the wall.
"When can I see her?"
Carmichael glances at her watch. "She'll be in surgery for at least another hour and in ICU after that. Why don't you go home, change into some dry clothes, and try to get some sleep."
"I'm not going anywhere."
Her gaze narrows. She blows out a sigh. "Why doesn't that surprise me." She looks him over, taking in his soggy and bedraggled appearance with clinical detachment. "I'll see if the nurses can scare up a set of scrubs for you. I don't need another patient today."
"Thank you, Doctor."
"You're welcome." She glances back at him, one hand on the door. "Chapel's on the second floor, Captain. You might try prayer."
And with that she's gone, leaving him standing alone in the empty room.