Chapter 3 - Code Crimson
The interior of the Sikorsky was a hurricane of organized violence.
The roar of the engines drowned out everything, but inside my head, the only sound was the sickeningly slow, rhythmic *beep... beep... beep...* of the fetal heart monitor strapped to my swollen stomach.
"Fetal heart rate is decelerating! 90 beats per minute! 85!" Dr. Kelly shouted into his headset, pushing an injection into my IV port. "She's losing too much blood. Pump two units of O-negative, rapid infuser! Vivian, stay with me! Keep your eyes open!"
The ceiling of the cabin spun in nauseating circles. The bright halogen lights overhead seemed to dim, receding into a narrow, dark tunnel.
I looked across the narrow space. My father was sitting on the jump seat, holding my limp left hand between both of his. The man who had faced down congressional hearings, foreign adversaries, and military crises was pale, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped beneath the skin.
"Look at me, Vivian," his voice cut through my headset. "Look at your father."
I forced my eyelids to lift. "Dad... it hurts... it hurts so much..."
"I know, baby. I know. But you are a Sterling. You do not quit. You hear me? You hold on to that boy. He has your blood, and he has mine. He doesn't go down without a fight."
"I let Carter treat me like nothing," I wept, the tears mixing with the sweat cold on my temples. "I wanted... I wanted to prove I could make a normal marriage work... without your name..."
"That was your grace, Vivian," Marcus said, his voice breaking slightly. "Not your weakness. They mistook your mercy for helplessness. That is their sin, not yours. Now hold on. We’re touching down."
The helicopter banked violently, the landing gear slamming onto the rooftop helipad of Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda.
The cabin doors flew open, admitting a blast of frigid night air and the roar of a dozen awaiting medical personnel.
"Code Crimson! Maternal trauma, thirty weeks, fetal distress!"
The stretcher was ripped from the cabin and slammed onto the concrete. We moved at a dead sprint down the brightly lit corridors, double doors crashing open one after another.
"Prep OR Four! Call Dr. Aris Thorne down from Pediatric Surgery right now!" a surgeon yelled as he ran alongside my gurney. "Get the neonatal crash cart ready! We have less than three minutes to deliver before irreversible hypoxic brain damage!"
Marcus ran alongside me until we reached the red line marking the sterile surgical perimeter.
Two nurses stepped forward, arms raised. "Sir, you cannot go past this point!"
Marcus stopped. He released my hand, his eyes burning with an intense, fierce fire. "I’ll be right outside this door, Vivian. Bring my grandson back to me."
The large automated doors slid shut, severing the outside world.
Inside the operating room, everything turned into a blinding, clinical blur.
"Rapid sequence induction! Push propofol! Prep the abdomen with Betadine—don't wait for the scrub, pour it!"
A cold mask was placed over my face. A sweet, chemical smell filled my lungs.
"Count down from ten, Vivian," a voice said softly beside my ear.
"Ten..." I whispered.
*Carter, you will pay for this.*
"Nine..."
*Eleanor, you will beg for mercy.*
"Eight..."
May you like
Then the darkness swallowed me whole.
***