Cynthia gasped and rushed over to the man who’d fallen. His body armor vest—in addition to the thick ceramic armor plates in pouches to the front and rear of it—had straps, belts, Velcro fasteners, clips, and pockets that obstructed anything she might do to examine him. She ripped the fasteners off, pulled at the straps, and pushed the clips aside. The armor plates were astonishingly heavy. She finally spread open the vest, seeing the blood spreading along the left side of his uniform shirt. She could also see his Adam’s apple getting pulled to the right as if from some internal force.

Within seconds of her stethoscope against his chest, she diagnosed him. “Tension pneumothorax.”

The red-haired man with the thick red beard who had argued with her outside pulled a kit out of his backpack. “I got this. See to our medic, please.”

“What does a mercenary know about relieving a tension pneumo?”

The man looked confused for a breath, then he nodded once, as if having assimilated all of her assumptions to formulate his reply. “Ma’am, we are not mercs or any other kind of criminal. We’re soldiers in the US Armed Forces, and we are here legally. That’s all I can tell you about our mission and way more than you need to know.” He gripped her wrist and studied her with intense green eyes. “Doctor, I can rig a four-gauge valve in the intercostal space between the third and fourth ribs for Sergeant Sanders here, but I cannot suture an artery. Let me help Sergeant Sanders and leave you to Lieutenant Osbourne.”

Not mercenaries? She looked at the group through new eyes. She didn’t like not taking full control of all her patients. However, she knew enough about the American military to realize that this man would indeed know how to correctly install the valve. “Yes. Okay.” Ripping another pair of gloves off, she caught Tadeas’s eye. “I need a suture kit. And the ultrasound machine.”

“Yes, Doctor,” he replied, then headed to the back of the room, where he opened the supply closet.

She rose to her feet and went back to the table. The medic had his eyes open. “Hello there,” she said, putting a hand on his forehead. “Can you tell me your name?”

“I’m Phil Osbourne. Ozzy. You Doctor Myers?” His dirty-blond eyebrows furrowed over his gray-green eyes.

“That’s me. Okay, Ozzy. I’m going to see what I can do to suture your femoral artery. Good thing it’s so big, huh?”

His body quaked with shock. She wished she had a way to warm him. “I t-t-tried t-t—”