'Losing a little pressure in White's blood pressure cuff, Doctor,' Kelly murmured.
'Mr. Kelly—then get it back up—I need pressure until we're completed. Sing out and have that next donor ready.'
Rourke heard a door opening behind him, glanced over his shoulder—it was the ship's doctor—He tried to remember the name. Milton, he thought.
'Doctor Rourke—we typed her at positive—lucky for her it wasn't a negative RH
factor. I'm getting as many five hundred millih'ter size transfusion bags made up as I can.'
'You've got filters for clot removal?' Rourke asked automatically.
'Yes—we're getting the tubing ready now as soon as we wheel her in.'
Kelly again. 'Doctor—Doctor Rourke I mean—we're at twenty drops per minute—'
'Hold the rate of transfusion there for ten minutes.' There was more noise behind him, then he noticed Doctor Milton was gone.
Rourke glanced at the clock on the wall—he gave Natalia another fifteen minutes at best. 'Doctor Milton,'
he shouted- 'She ready yet?'
'Yes—just now, Doctor Rourke.'
'Why don't you finish up this man—Kelly's set for the next donor.' Rourke moved aside, letting Milton take over for him, walking toward the swinging door, another pharmacist's mate there, scrubbed, helping Rourke as he degloved, then regtoved.
'I'm getting started stitching this man's lips,' Milton called out.
'I'll begin work then,' Rourke nodded, not looking. He stepped into the second and larger surgery. Two men with medical training attended the table, neither of them a surgical nurse, neither really a pharmacist's mate either. 'Get that pharmacist's mate—Kelly—get him in here quick,' Rourke called out, again not looking—his eyes were riveted on Natalia. He knew it was anesthesia working on her now—that she wasn't dead—not yet.
He approached the operating table, hearing the door swing to behind him.
'It's Kelly, Doctor.'
Rourke nodded. 'Let's start those transfusion bags.' He glanced at the chart Milton had begun, then at Natalia's blood pressure—it was falling too fast.
Chapter 10
'What's the name of this boat anyway?'
'Well, Mr. Rubenstein—you've got the terminology right. We call her a boat. I guess calling her a 'her' is kinda dumb—but it's tradition. She's the U.S.S.
John Paul Jones.'
'How'd you know my name?' Rubenstein asked the older man sitting across from him at the officer's mess table. Rubenstein looked at the radiation badge he'd been given as soon as he'd come aboard. No name appeared on it.
'My business to know everything that goes on aboard this boat—' The man smiled, extending his hand. 'I'm Bob Gundersen—Commander Gundersen, sort of an affectionate title the men use with me. Sometimes they just call me Captain, though.'
Rubenstein took the hand—it was warm, dry—solid.
'My friends call me Paul, Commander.'
'Paul it is then—'
Rubenstein wished again he'd not given up smoking years earlier. 'If you know everything that goes on on this ship, then tell me how Natalia's doing?'
'Major Tiemerovna?' He glanced at his watch—Rubenstein noticed it was a Rolex like Rourke wore. 'Dr. Rourke started transfusing blood into her about ten minutes ago. He may be operating by now—I don't know that.'
'I wish John weren't—'
'Doctor Rourke?'
'Yeah—John. I wish he weren't. I remember reading something once that doctors aren't supposed to operate on family members—or people they're close to. Too much of a stress situation.'
'I asked Doctor Rourke the same thing myself,' Gundersen nodded, sipping at his coffee. 'He said he'd checked with our doctor—Harvey Milton. Doctor Milton told Rourke he'd never worked on a gunshot wound before. He hadn't. He's fresh out of medical school two years ago and before the Night of The War at least, we didn't have many gunshot wounds in the Navy. Now, of course, we don't really have a Navy at all. All the surface ships are gone or at least gone out of contact. Not many of us in the pigboat fleet left either.'
