“He’ll be fine,” I told them. I wrapped the wound, then observed the dressings for a moment. No blood was soaking through yet. Good. I cleaned and dressed the back of his head.
“Doctor? Christine? Is it bad?” This was Campbell again, sounding clearer and more composed. I suspected he still had been reeling from the knock on the head when they brought him in.
“You’re going to be all right, I promise. We’re just going to take you into the captain’s quarters and get you in bed.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m… tired.”
“Get someone else in here,” I said to Larsen. “He needs as much support as possible when we move him, and that leg shouldn’t move at all.”
He didn’t seem to mind being ordered around. And although I was more used to dealing with corpses than the blood and screams of the living, it felt good to me, too. This was something I could handle, could fix. Just a bullet wound and head trauma, real-world situations that presented no surprises.
Another SEAL climbed through and, under my direction, he, Larsen and Ridder hoisted Campbell up and carried him to the captain’s quarters. Campbell now had the presence of mind to protest and tell anyone who could listen that he could walk just fine.
“No,” I said to him after we had him in bed. “No walking, no moving. Just lie there. I’m being honest when I say you’ll be fine, but you’re going to make things worse if you try to get up. Doctor’s orders.”
That drew a wan smile. But it was sincere and peaceful.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
We left Ridder to finish attending to him and moved back to the control compartment. Larsen pulled me over to the nav station after telling Reyes to take over the helm.
“Listen, I want the truth. Is he going to make it?” he asked me, his eyes serious.
“I’m certain the bullet wound isn’t mortal. It’s all flesh, maybe nicked the bone-there’s no way to tell at this point. But the major artery in that area didn’t get hit. He’s not going to bleed out.” I stopped, considering my next words. “The concussion is minor, too, as far as I can tell. If he were in a hospital, I would bet my life and yours that he would survive with few difficulties. But if his brain starts swelling here, there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that as long as there are no complications, Campbell’s in no immediate danger. But if there are, his chances are a lot worse. He needs a hospital.” I wasn’t too concerned about my bedside manner. I doubted Larsen was, either.
He considered what I had told him for a moment.
“Shut the hatch,” he said to one of the SEALs in the electrical control room, and the door slammed shut.
Then he regarded me again. “Dr. Myers. Two more men are dead.”
“I heard it.”
“We all did. The intercom channel was open to every compartment in the ship. We all got to listen as the Serpent did Vazquez, flushed him like a fucking goldfish,” he said, his entire body radiating anger. “Why would he do that? Why would he broadcast that to the rest of the boat?”
Ah. He wanted my opinion. I was the expert again, but I was tired of my oscillating status. It was just too much.
“You’re acting as if you respect my views. Why is that?” My professional voice resurfaced, even and neutral.
His pocked face reddened. A vein snaking across his forehead pulsed like a buried parasite.
“Don’t fuck with me. Not now, Doctor. This is serious, and I don’t need static from you.”
I let him stand there for a moment as I reached back, shook my hair loose, then refixed it with the elastic band. To me, we weren’t surrounded by exposed wiring and gray steel. We weren’t floating hundreds of feet underwater. Or if we were, it didn’t matter. This was my ground now, and I wasn’t giving it up.
“All you’ve done so far is mess with me, Larsen.” Still a neutral voice. “Lied to me. Tried to trick me. Probably called me mean names behind my back, too, but I don’t really give a fuck about that.”
Now I ratcheted up the volume, taking a half-step toward him.
“Lucky me, though, you actually need me around sometimes. So you send for me, give me some problem to solve and then stick me back in my cage when I’m done. If my conclusion agrees with yours, then you’re a genius. But if it doesn’t, I’m an idiot. Funny how that works, huh, tough guy? No, shut up,” I said.
Larsen had taken a breath, but I didn’t give him a chance to turn it into a reply.
“People start dying, and you want answers from me. But if I do anything that seems remotely inconvenient to you, you act like it’s my problem, not yours.
“And now you want me to psychoanalyze the Serpent? Tell you why he did what he did? And, let me guess, tell you what he’s going to do next?” This felt good. I let myself ride with the deep current of fury. “You’re such an asshole.”
He wanted to hit me. I could see the fantasy playing out behind his eyes, him lunging forward, me crying out and falling to the deck. Stupid bitch, his look said.
“Shut up,” his mouth said. “Shut up right now.”
“Shut up? Or give you advice?” I dialed it back down to a conversational level. “That’s the problem. You want me to do both. And as of right now, I will not. If you treat me like a person, like a professional, like an equal, we can work together.”
The change in tone caught him like I had wanted it to, a flurry of jabs followed by an uppercut. He was off-balance. Was I angry? Was I reasonable?
The important question to me was, would he be reasonable?
“What do you want?” He had stepped back as far as I had moved forward. Point: me. I let us slip back into the submarine, the semi-audible vibrations of the engines, the naked lights, the coils of wires and pipes overhead.
“I want respect. I want to survive as much as you and your men do. I’ll use everything at my disposal to help the good guys win this one.”
His face was still red, but it contained no violence anymore.
“I respect you.”
“And I believe you.” A lie, but a necessary concession. “I just want you to show it. I’m not a soldier, but I’m an expert that you need on your team.”
“I’ll respect your judgment and opinions, Doctor. But I need you to respect my authority.”
There we go. This one was almost over.
“I respect your authority. You’re the commander, the mission leader. It all comes down to you. I trust you to use my skills in the best way possible.”
“Fine. We’ll need them.” No way was I getting an apology. This was what I wanted, though.
“And there’s one other thing,” I said, continuing before he could rile himself up again. “I want a gun.”
“A gun?”
I gestured at our surroundings.
“We’re fighting a war. I’m the only one here who can’t shoot back. I’m not saying I want to go out on any raiding parties or anything like that. But if it comes down to it, I might need to defend myself.”
“You know how to use a firearm?”
“It’s required for the places the CIA sends me.”
“Assault rifle, too?”
“Sure. But I’ll settle for a pistol.”
And then he did something that told me I had accomplished far more than I had hoped. He unsnapped a flap on his utility belt and handed me his sidearm.
“Model 1911?” I said, feeling the heft of the .45 in my hand.
“Yeah. Some people don’t like the small mag, but in my book, being able to stop someone with one shot is more important than being able to shoot them three times.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant.” I held his gaze, creating a solemn moment between us. Then I jerked my head toward the aft bulkhead. “Now, let’s figure out how to tackle the Serpent.”