Dear Reader
‘IT’S AN EMERGENCY, Sullivan, I swear.’
Sullivan let out a wry laugh as he shook his head and ran his fingers through his damp hair. ‘It’s always an emergency, Gibbs.’ He stared at the inside of the khaki tent.
Gibbs laughed too. ‘Well, this time it really is. Asfar Modarres collapsed. Some kind of intestinal problem. He was lucky we got him out in time.’
Sullivan started pacing. ‘Is he okay?’ He liked the Iranian doctor. He’d joined Doctors Without Borders around the same time as Sullivan. They’d never served together but he’d known him well enough to see his commitment and compassion for the job.
‘He should be fine. He had surgery a few hours ago.’ Gibbs sucked in a deep breath. Sullivan smiled. Here it comes.
‘Anyway, there’s two weeks left of the mission with only one doctor on site. We’re at a crucial stage. MDR TB is up to worrying levels in Nambura. We need another pair of hands.’
Sullivan shook his head as he paced. ‘I’m a surgeon, Gibbs. Not a medic. Last time I learned about TB I was in med school. I know virtually nothing about it, let alone the multi-drug-resistant strains.’
He wasn’t kidding. Ask him to wield a scalpel and he wouldn’t hesitate. As an army surgeon he’d operated on the most harrowing injuries, in the most dire of circumstances. No one had ever questioned his surgical abilities. He prided himself on it. But put him in a situation where he wasn’t the expert?
‘You’re a doctor, Sullivan—and that’s what I need. Anyway, there’s no one else I can send.’ Gibbs hesitated. ‘And there’s another issue.’
‘What?’
‘Nambura can be...difficult.’
Sullivan frowned. ‘Spit it out, Gibbs.’
‘The medic is Gabrielle Cartier. The two nurses Lucy Provan and Estelle Duschanel, the onsite pharmacist Gretchen Koch.’
Sullivan sucked in a breath and groaned. Four females on their own. Nambura tribes were very traditional. Some of the tribal leaders probably wouldn’t even talk to four Western women.
A female colleague had reported minor hostilities on a mission a few months ago. There was no way he’d leave the four of them there for the next two weeks with no back-up. His father would never have left fellow team members at risk and the same principles had been ingrained into Sullivan all his life.
‘Okay, you got me. When can you arrange transport?’
Gibbs started talking quickly. ‘I’ll send you our latest information and protocols on MDR TB. You can read them en route. The helicopter will pick you up in fifty minutes.’
The line went dead as Sullivan stared at the phone. Fifty minutes. Gibbs had clearly already sent the transport before he’d made the call. It was almost as if he’d known Sullivan didn’t have anything to go home to.
His top-gun pilot father had died while Sullivan had been on his final tour of duty in Helmand Province. He’d flown home, watched his father buried with full military honours, completed his tour, then had signed up with Doctors Without Borders.
Three years later he’d only managed to go home for nineteen sporadic days. He still hadn’t emptied his father’s closets or packed up any of his things.
He flung the phone onto his bunk as he pulled his bag from the top of the locker.
Just as well he travelled light.
* * *
The music met his ears as the chopper lifted back up into the black night sky, flattening the trees all around him.
He tilted his head as he tried to recognise the tune and the direction from which it was coming. There was only one path from the landing spot leading through the trees.
He wound his way along it, the music getting louder with every step, until eventually he emerged into a clearing filled with familiar khaki tents identical to the ones he’d
