Radclyffe - Oath of Honor

“I tried to talk her out of coming along.”

“I thought you might. I take it she disagreed?”

“Vociferously.” Andrew sighed and loosened his tie. “I couldn’t deny that her presence has always made a difference in my election campaigns. The public loves her, and she grabs the attention of the younger voters. They rally around her because she’s so smart and strong and doesn’t care who knows how she feels.”

“She’s her father’s daughter in that.”

“No small amount of that comes from you.”

“And her mother,” Lucinda said softly.

“Yes. And her mother.”

“Blair won’t run from danger, and unless we change our plans to bring Cameron inside, there’s no way we’ll convince Blair to stay home.”

“We could do this without Cam,” Andrew said. “I’m not happy about involving her either.”

“Andrew,” Lucinda said, “Cam is the perfect person to investigate the source of these leaks. She has no political affiliations, other than her loyalty to you. We can trust her completely. And she’s very, very good.”

“Jensen briefed me this morning. Although the threat level remains unchanged, the soft intel we’re getting shows a heightened probability for hostile action.”

Anxiety squeezed Lucinda’s throat, but she kept her voice even. They’d faced the worst together—his wife’s death, attempts on Blair’s life, threats against the nation abroad and at home. She would never let her fear for him show. “All the more reason to start looking hard at those around you.”

He stretched his arm out between their chairs and she took his hand, closing her fingers around his broad, strong palm. He squeezed gently.

“I knew you’d say that,” Andrew said. “And I know you’re right. I know you’ll make sure nothing happens to her.”

“Blair will be safe,” Lucinda said firmly. No matter what she had to do, she would see that was true. “And so will you. You just concentrate on winning this election.”

The president laughed. “Yes, ma’am.”

*

A tap sounded on Wes’s partially open office door and she clicked closed the autopsy report on Len O’Shaughnessy. “Yes?”

The door swung open and Peter Chang appeared in the doorway. She knew from the duty roster he’d been on the night before. She also knew from her early-morning review of the night’s logs there’d been no major emergencies. One of the chefs had sliced his hand and needed stitches, a delivery man was evaluated for a wrenched shoulder, and a staffer in the press room had come down for something to help with her stomach flu and learned she was pregnant.

“Commander, come in,” Wes said.

“I just wanted to say hello,” Peter said. “If you’re busy, I don’t want to interrupt.”

“Just trying to get a handle on the operation. Have a seat.”

Peter pulled a straight-backed wooden chair from against the wall in front of her desk and sat down. He was dressed in a tan blazer, light brown button-down cotton shirt, and khaki pants. His tie was thin and black with no pattern. Conservative. As close to a uniform as he could get without wearing one. Wes sympathized. She felt vaguely uncomfortable working out of uniform, especially when she passed military personnel and officers from the Uniformed Division of the Secret Service at every junction. Without the symbols of her rank that had come to define her, she felt displaced, a lot like she did in this strangely skewed new medical terrain.

“Anything I can help you with?” Peter said.

“You can tell me if you think there are any protocols that need updating or reviewing.”

He shifted ever so slightly in his seat, a tell indicating her question had caught him off guard and made him a little uneasy. She couldn’t imagine why the question would make him uncomfortable, but her radar pinged—something was off.

“I can’t think of anything,” Peter finally said. “I know Len—Dr. O’Shaughnessy—reviewed everything himself. Once in a while he’d update some of the pharmaceuticals used in emergency protocols, but he pretty much left the management of acute problems up to the team handling the presenting problem.”

“So the same injury or medical condition might receive different treatment depending on which team handled it?”

Peter shifted again. “Well, management is pretty standard, so I don’t think anyone really deviated much.”

“How often does the team get together—for debriefings or case review?”

“Our schedules can be pretty irregular—we’re not usually all around at the same time. For Len—well, you now—especially. When the president is traveling, Len almost always accompanied him, which might mean he was detached to the president for weeks at a time.”

“Meaning there wasn’t really any unit Q&A.”

Peter hesitated. “Not per se, no.”

“Okay, thanks. That’s helpful.” Wes could see right away that her idea of running a unit was completely different than the laissez-faire attitude of her predecessor, and probably his before him. No one would conceive of running an emergency room without standardized protocols that everyone adhered to, departmental review of case outcomes, and regular morbidity and mortality conferences. And yet this unit, which not only cared for some of the most important individuals in the world, but several hundred high-level staff and countless visitors, had only the barest degree of internal organization or accountability. She planned to change that and doubted anyone would be too happy about it. She leaned forward on her desk and folded her hands. “Anything else you think I should know?”

“No,” Peter said quickly. “It’s all standard stuff.”

“Yes, well, I gather that around here, standard means pretty much a constant state of readiness.”

“I guess that’s true.” He kneaded his jacket between his hands. “Like most things, there’s a whole lot of preparing for situations that never happen.”

“Let’s hope that continues to be the case.” Wes stood. “I should have a new rotation schedule available for everyone in approximately a week. Until then, everyone should continue with the rotations as previously posted. If I’m needed at any time, my pager is listed with the operators. I left my cell phone number on the board in the clinic AOD office last night. Otherwise, carry on.”

He stood and saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

She returned the salute. “Not necessary in private.”

“Hard habit to break.”

She nodded. “Yes, I know.”

Peter disappeared into the hall, and Wes sat back down behind her desk. He didn’t seem to harbor any resentment, at least not outwardly. He did seem uneasy, though, but that might just be because he didn’t know her, and she had taken the job that presumably he had wanted. Or maybe she was reading too much into the situation because Evyn thought Chang deserved the job and not her. Evyn.

She hadn’t thought about her while she was working, but every time she stopped, snippets of their conversations would start up again in her mind. Along with that split second of gut-wrenching horror when she’d thought Evyn was mortally wounded. Evyn was so certain of what should be done and why. In order to do Evyn’s job, that kind of mindset was probably necessary. She understood. She even agreed, while another part of her mind questioned.

All Wes could hope was that her orders never conflicted with her training, but ultimately, she would follow orders, regardless of the consequences to others. Even Evyn. She shied away from the idea of leaving Evyn wounded, without the care that might potentially save her life. She thought of Evyn’s body fresh from the shower—sleek and smooth and strong. Beautiful. She was trained to read a person’s body with her hands—to feel the presence of injury and disease in the disruption of the pattern of skin and muscle and bone. She experienced the world through her senses, and Evyn filled her senses. The whisper of Evyn’s skin beneath her fingers that day in the ambulance left her wanting more. Seeing Evyn naked after her shower, she’d ached to trace the tantalizing curve along the edge of Evyn’s shoulder blade down the slope of her back to the hollow above her hips. She’d imagined heat and supple—