Chapter 2 - The Patient With a Perfect Oxygen Reading
The worst part about watching someone seize in front of you is the fraction of a second when your brain wants to stop being a professional.
It wants to become human.
It wants to panic.
It wants to ask why.
I couldn't afford any of those things.
“Seizure activity!” I called.
Miles Grant, the charge nurse, was already moving.
“Time it. Protect his airway.”
Cross stepped to the head of the stretcher.
“Get respiratory in here.”
The patient’s muscles tightened beneath my hands.
His boots scraped against the edge of the bed.
The young German sailor who had followed him into the emergency department stood against the wall, terrified.
He kept repeating the same sentence.
“He was talking to me. He was talking to me.”
I understood him.
I wanted to answer.
Instead, I helped the team position the patient safely while Cross and the respiratory therapist managed his breathing.
A minute later, the violent movements stopped.
That didn't mean he was okay.
His pulse was too fast.
His breathing was irregular.
The monitor continued showing an oxygen saturation that looked reassuring.
Ninety-seven percent.
The number Cross had trusted.
I looked at him.
“Captain, please order a blood gas with co-oximetry.”
His eyes flashed.
“I'm managing the patient.”
“I know.”
“Then let me.”
“The reading doesn't tell us whether his hemoglobin is carrying carbon monoxide.”
Cross turned toward the respiratory therapist.
“Get the blood gas. Full co-oximetry.”
I almost sagged with relief.
Not because he'd listened to me.
Because the sailor would get the assessment he needed.
A toxicology physician arrived moments later.
Her name was Dr. Priya Nair.
She was small, serious, and completely uninterested in department politics.
She reviewed the situation.
Then asked who had identified the insulation material.
I raised my hand.
“The patient's shipmate.”
“You speak German?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Stay.”
Cross's expression hardened again.
I pretended not to notice.
The first blood results came back.
The patient's carbon monoxide level was elevated.
Other findings raised concerns about additional toxic exposure.
Dr. Nair's eyes sharpened.
“We're treating this as a mixed inhalation injury until proven otherwise.”
The room moved faster.
Not chaotically.
Purposefully.
I helped prepare equipment and medications according to the physicians’ orders.
The German sailor watched from the doorway.
He was probably twenty-five.
His hands were black with soot.
I approached him briefly.
“What's your name?”
“Jonas Keller.”
“Jonas, your friend is receiving treatment.”
“Will he survive?”
“I can't promise that.”
His eyes filled.
I softened my voice.
“But he's not being ignored.”
Jonas swallowed.
That seemed to matter.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Lieutenant Felix Adler.”
I wrote the name.
“Can you tell me exactly what happened?”
Jonas looked over his shoulder.
Toward the military police outside the bay.
His expression changed.
“We were told not to talk.”
“By whom?”
He hesitated.
“Someone from the company.”
“What company?”
He whispered a name.
“Northstar Marine Systems.”
My stomach dropped.
Five years ago, my mother had died while investigating safety certifications issued to that same company.
I kept my face neutral.
That required effort.
“Jonas, right now I need the medical facts. Everything you saw, smelled, and heard.”
He nodded.
“There were fifteen people on the lower deck.”
“How many were evacuated?”
“Thirteen.”
“Two missing?”
“Yes.”
I looked toward the electronic casualty board.
The emergency report listed fourteen people assigned below deck.
I asked him to repeat himself.
“Fifteen.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Who is missing?”
“Lena Vogt. Our safety officer.”
“And the second?”
He lowered his eyes.
“I don't know his name. He was an American contractor.”
A terrible feeling began moving through my stomach.
“Was Lena injured?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She was trying to get everyone out.”
“Did she make it off the ship?”
Jonas shook his head.
“I saw her on the gangway.”
“Walking?”
“No.”
He swallowed.
“Someone was helping her.”
“Who?”
“Two men in civilian jackets.”
That wasn't automatically suspicious.
Civilian contractors assisted emergency responses all the time.
But something about his expression bothered me.
“They told us she was being taken to another hospital.”
I glanced at Miles.
He was updating the board.
I walked over.
“How many casualties are accounted for?”
“Eight here. Four transported elsewhere. Two treated on scene.”
“Fourteen.”
“That's what dispatch says.”
“There were fifteen.”
Miles looked up.
“Who says?”
“A sailor.”
He studied me.
“You trust him?”
“He was there.”
Miles leaned toward the screen.
“Names?”
“Lena Vogt is missing. There's also an unidentified American contractor.”
His expression changed.
“Dispatch has Lena listed as uninjured and released on scene.”
I looked toward Jonas.
He had just told me she couldn't walk without help.
Those two accounts did not fit.
Cross approached.
“What are you doing away from Trauma One?”
“Confirming casualties.”
“Leave that to the operations coordinator.”
“Sir, the shipmate says there's a missing injured sailor.”
Cross glanced at the screen.
“She's already accounted for.”
“On paper.”
His jaw tightened.
“Bennett.”
“Sir, if the roster is wrong, someone who needs care may have been missed.”
Miles intervened.
“I'll verify it.”
Cross stared at him.
Then walked away.
For the second time that morning, Miles looked as though he might regret helping me.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“Don't thank me until we find her.”
By noon, Felix Adler was stable enough to move to intensive care.
Still critically ill.
Still unable to speak.
But alive.
I stood outside his room while the team completed the transfer.
The anger I had been holding finally began to reach my hands.
They trembled.
I pressed them against the counter.
Miles noticed.
“First mass casualty?”
“No.”
“First one with Cross?”
“Yes.”
He gave a humorless laugh.
“He's a good doctor.”
I looked at him.
“Is he?”
Miles considered.
“He can be.”
That was not the same answer.
I went into the staff bathroom.
Washed my hands.
Then stared at my reflection.
I looked exhausted.
My mother had always said I had her eyes.
Dark brown.
Too expressive.
Terrible for poker.
I could still hear Felix.
Your mother warned us.
How did he know?
Why was her name connected to a fire thousands of miles from the German research facility where she had died?
And what report had someone changed?
I returned to the station.
Jonas was still there.
He held a small plastic evidence bag.
“Lieutenant Adler had this in his pocket.”
Inside was a folded laminated card.
A safety inspection checklist.
German on one side.
English on the other.
Jonas pointed toward the bottom.
“She made us carry copies.”
“Who?”
“Lena.”
I unfolded the card carefully without removing it from its bag.
Across the bottom was a red warning.
Material certification requires independent verification after any supplier substitution.
Beneath it was a printed reference number.
And one name.
Dr. Helen Bennett — Technical Review, 2021.
My mother's name.
The date was five years old.
I stared at it until the letters stopped looking like letters.
Jonas watched me.
“You knew her?”
I swallowed.
“She was my mother.”
He went pale.
Then whispered:
“Oh, God.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
His eyes moved toward the hospital doors.
“Then you need to know something.”
My pulse hammered.
“What?”
“Lieutenant Adler didn't come here by accident.”
I stared.
“He specifically asked the paramedics to bring him to Harbor Point.”
“Why?”
Jonas looked at the laminated card.
“Because Lena told him this was the one hospital where somebody might still have the original report.”
I closed my eyes.
There was no way Felix could have known I would be working my first shift.
But he might have known the hospital had retained copies.
That was a question investigators needed to answer.
Jonas leaned closer.
“And there was something else.”
“What?”
“Lena said that if the doctors called the fire an accident…”
He stopped.
“Then?”
May you like
Jonas lowered his voice.
“Ask them why the safety log was rewritten before anyone smelled smoke.”
