lapse.
He ran toward the throng of people. Found her huddled next to Lem, whose eyes rivaled hers for biggest and roundest of the crowd.
Gauging that his staff was triaging the ground choppers and he still had a minute until the others landed, he sprinted over.
Mitch faced Lauren and placed firm hands on her shoulders. Willed her to look him in the eye. “Lauren, are you current?”
“Wh-what?”
“Your nursing license. Is it current?”
“N-not in this state.” She blinked furiously.
“In Texas?”
She nodded slowly, looking confused as to why he’d ask.
“Are all of your emergency certifications up to date?”
“Y-yes, but—”
“That’s good enough. You’re legal in a mass casualty situation, which is what I fear we have here.”
“What? No, you can’t possibly ask—”
He could and he would.
“Lauren, listen to me. I need your help.”
She shook her head vehemently.
He swiveled his neck to watch the next chopper prepare to land, its flight crew frenziedly working over someone.
No time to argue.
Facing Lauren again, he increased hand pressure, hunkered his shoulders and got nose to nose with Lem’s granddaughter. “Nurse Bates, I’m not asking. I’m ordering. Triage chopper number three, then meet me at four.”
Desperate hands came up to clutch his. “Mitch, please,” she rasped. “I can’t. I’m not qualified for trauma. I worked OB.”
Compassion vying for impatience, Mitch leaned close to her ear. “Lauren Esther Bates, I’ll tell you what a wise man told me when I doubted I had what it took to be a doctor.”
He eyed Lem respectively, then Lauren pointedly. “God doesn’t call the qualified, He qualifies the called. I’m convinced He put you here for this precise moment. I don’t have enough hands. People are dying. We need you. Go.” He gave her shoulders a nudge—okay, more like gentle shove.
Rage streamed from her eyes, then tears.
She spun and ran to the chopper. He caught the piercing cry she hurled at him upon turning.
Her scathing reaction promised she’d never forgive him for this. But practicing triage medicine wasn’t a popularity contest. He had a job to do and people to save.
He faced Lem. “Sorry, but—”
Lem shook his head. “Just do your job, son. I’ll get a ride home.” Lem affectionately clasped his shoulder.
Mitch eyed the last chopper hovering above a windblown field. “I meant sorry for speaking to Lauren in that manner.”
“She’ll be all right.”
Mitch hoped so as he observed her taking a report from the third chopper crew on his way to meet the fourth.
She probably wondered how he knew her middle name. But Mitch knew nearly everything about her because, true to what he’d said in the car, Lem never stopped talking about her.
He’d already known how her parents had died, but had asked out of sensitivity in order to gauge how many details Lauren knew so he wouldn’t mistakenly speak of it.
Mitch had heard many times how she was named after the Biblical Esther at Lem’s request at her birth.
If Lauren Esther was made of the same moral fiber as her namesake and as her grandpa, she wouldn’t bail on him, his skeleton crew…or the people injured in those choppers.
Lord, I hope like the end of hiccups that You bestowed Lem’s courage, compassion, intelligence, recall, integrity and unflappable grit upon Lauren.
The next two hours would tell.
Chapter Three
Satisfied Lauren was on board with his plans, Mitch sprinted to the last-landed chopper. Three’s crew worked feverishly, but he had peace Lauren could handle it. A medic disembarked and rushed Mitch, who eyed his beeper to be sure he hadn’t missed pages about this.
“Status?” Mitch asked the out-of-breath flight medic.
“Three-car accident. High-speed head-on.” He hitched a thumb toward the interstate. “Mass casualties…” He indicated the array of life flight choppers. “Obviously.”
Blades wind-whipped Mitch’s lab coat as they approached the fleet. Gas fumes permeated the air. “What happened?”
The medic’s eyes hooded. “Texting teen crossed the center lane. Hit a minivan, which spun into a third car. Perpetrating car ejected unbelted passengers. Twelve victims in all. Van folks in bad shape, but we can make it to St. Louis with them.”
“Who’re you leaving with us?”
“Both ejected teens. Driver’s bad, but not as grave as her passenger. Three more too critical for Refuge, and St. Loo’s too far. Place is a godsend.” He indicated Mitch’s center.
“Who’s the imminent death?” Mitch searched chopper windows.
The paramedic pointed to where Ian worked on a critical patient as Kate hurtled the gurney toward the entrance—which Mitch just now realized was still belted in uncut camo ribbon.
He dashed over, pulled his hook knife and slashed the band machete-style seconds before Ian and Kate torpedoed through.
“Not the way you envisioned the ribbon-cutting, huh?” Lauren, who’d jogged up, asked. “Got an extra stethoscope?”
Mitch draped his over her neck and squeezed her shoulders in respect and gratitude. She nodded, then bolted back to the field. Her previous terror and hostility had vanished. Thank You, Lord.
He headed toward operating rooms. Had they even taken the plastic off the equipment yet? If only they had a bigger crew.
But Mitch had wanted to honor the community by saving remaining positions for townspeople needing work.
Ian looked to be thinking similar thoughts. “I got this case. You rally the troops. We need more help. I wish your pararescue jumper friends were here. We could use the PJs’ elite medical skills.”
“No doubt.” But the special operations paramedics were on a mission. Mitch ran back out. Scanned the crowd.
Lord, come on. You know I can’t do this without—
Like exclamation points on the end of his prayer, Mandy Briggs, pediatrician wife of one of the PJs, rushed
