Chapter 5 - The Operating Theater
The fluorescent lighting in the fourth-floor corridor seemed to hum with cold electricity. Commander Russell Dane’s face went from mottled red to the gray hue of wet concrete.
“Admiral,” Dane stammered, clutching the red disciplinary folder against his chest like a shield. “This is an internal personnel matter! Naval Medical Center San Diego operating regulations state clearly that any staff member undergoing formal administrative discipline cannot perform clinical interventions without direct authorization from the facility director! I was protecting the hospital from liability!”
“Liability?”
The Captain standing at Keene’s right shoulder stepped forward. Her dark hair was cut in a severe, precise bob beneath her combination cover. Her gold oak leaves and JAG insignia caught the glare of the ceiling lights.
“Commander Dane, I am Captain Eleanor Vance, Office of the Judge Advocate General, Pacific Fleet,” she said, her voice like cold, sheared steel. “Ten minutes ago, under the direct authority of the Surgeon General of the Navy and Commander, Naval Special Warfare Command, your administrative authority over this wing was revoked under Article 114 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”
Dane blinked, his mouth dropping open. “Revoked? On what grounds?”
“Dereliction of duty, endangerment of active-duty personnel, and willful obstruction of life-saving medical care during an active operational casualty event,” Captain Vance replied without taking a breath. “Furthermore, NCIS has just executed a search warrant on your private office and your terminal in the hospital records division.”
Behind the nurses' station, Kayla Thorne was trying to shrink behind a stack of plastic chart binders. Tyler Brooks had slid around the corner toward the fire escape, but a burly Master-at-Arms with a sidearm strapped to his thigh was already standing in front of the door, his arms folded across his chest.
“What… what are you talking about?” Dane whispered, his voice shrinking to a thin, pathetic squeak.
“We’re talking about the eighty milligrams of intravenous propranolol you tried to cover up three weeks ago, Commander,” Admiral Keene said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, quiet register that made even the combat medics down the hall stiffen.
Keene stepped around Dane and walked directly over to the nurses’ station.
“Nurse Whitlock,” Keene said, looking at Dana.
Dana froze, her hand still holding a roll of medical tape. “Y-yes, sir?”
“You were present when Commander Dane confronted Lieutenant Commander Maddox in his office regarding that prescription, were you not?”
Dana felt a cold sweat break out across her forehead. She looked at Dane, whose eyes were bulging with a silent, desperate threat. Then she looked down the hall at Elise Maddox.
Elise stood tall, her faded blue janitor scrubs still marked with the blood of two men who would live to see their families because she had refused to stay in the box Dane had built for her. Elise didn't look angry; she looked steady. Anchored.
Dana swallowed the lump of fear that had lived in her throat for three long weeks.
“Yes, Admiral,” Dana said, her voice ringing clear and loud down the entire corridor. “I was standing outside his office. Commander Dane knew the resident made a ten-fold dosing error. Dr. Hadley was the attending of record who co-signed that order without reading it. When Elise—Lieutenant Commander Maddox—refused to push the medication and reported it to the pharmacy safety board, Commander Dane told her that hierarchy mattered more than her opinion. He threatened to revoke her nursing license if she didn't sign the transfer to Environmental Services to keep the error off the hospital’s monthly accreditation audit.”
“That’s a lie!” Dane shrieked, spinning around. “She’s an insubordinate junior nurse! She has no proof!”
“We don’t need her proof, Commander,” Captain Vance said smoothly, pulling an iPad from her leather portfolio. “Thirty minutes ago, the Navy Cyber Warfare Command pulled your deleted file directory from the local server. They recovered the original automated dispensing cabinet logs. They also recovered three emails between you and Dr. Owen Hadley discussing how to falsify the patient’s telemetry strip to make it look like a spontaneous cardiac event rather than an overdose had Elise not intervened.”
Down the hall, the door to the physicians’ lounge clicked open.
Dr. Owen Hadley stepped out. He was still wearing his surgical greens, but his face looked entirely hollowed out. He had heard every word.
“Owen!” Dane pleaded, pointing a trembling finger at him. “Tell them! Tell them this was standard department protocol!”
Hadley didn't move. He leaned his back against the wall and slowly slid down until his rear hit the floor, burying his face in his trembling, sterile-scrubbed hands.
“I’m done, Russell,” Hadley groaned through his fingers. “I’m not going to Leavenworth for you. I told you we should have reported the near-miss. I told you she was right.”
The entire corridor stood in frozen, absolute silence.
Kayla Thorne burst into quiet, hysterical sobs, sliding down behind the desk to hide her face from the security officers.
Admiral Keene looked at the two Master-at-Arms officers standing beside the skybridge doors.
“Take Commander Dane into custody,” Keene ordered. “Escort him to the base brig. Confine him to quarters pending formal Article 32 preliminary hearing.”
“You can’t do this!” Dane screamed as the two burly sailors seized his arms, stripping his badge and his stethoscope from his neck. “I am a Commander in the United States Navy! I run this facility! Maddox! Tell them! You know the protocol!”
Elise Maddox didn't say a word. She simply watched with cool, detached eyes as the two guards hauled Russell Dane backward toward the elevators, his polished dress shoes squeaking pathetically against the vinyl floor he had ordered her to clean.
When the elevator doors finally slid shut on Dane’s muffled shouts, a heavy, cleansing quiet descended over the trauma floor.
Admiral Keene turned back to Elise. His weathered face softened, the iron lines around his eyes crinkling with an old, deep warmth.
“Lieutenant Commander,” Keene said, bringing his heels together and rendering a slow, crisp, perfectly executed hand salute.
Every combat medic, every corpsman, and even the young security guards down the hall snapped their right hands to their brows in unison.
Elise looked at them for a long moment. She brought her right hand up to her eyebrow—her fingers rock-solid, unwavering, and completely steady.
“Permission to speak freely, Admiral?” she said.
“Always, Kestrel,” Keene replied, dropping his salute.
“I need to check on my patients,” Elise said. “And then I’d like a clean uniform.”
May you like
Keene smiled. “I had your dress whites brought from your quarters. They’re hanging in the Chief of Surgery’s office. Which, as of twenty minutes ago, happens to be your office.”
***
