“Yes,” she said, not breaking rhythm. “Call it in. Get an AED. Now.” Her tone wasn’t frantic. It was command-level calm. The crowd shifted from curiosity to something closer to awe as they realized she wasn’t guessing. She was counting under her breath. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Repeat.
Sweat beaded along her hairline within a minute. Her hoodie sleeve rode up slightly, revealing a thin white scar running along her forearm that looked old and deliberate.
The defibrillator arrived clutched in the hands of a shaking airport medic who looked young enough to still be memorizing protocols. “Pads,” she said sharply. “Upper right chest. Lower left. Clear.” Shock delivered. The general’s body jerked. No pulse. “Again.” She resumed compressions immediately, not waiting for applause, not glancing at the gathering line of airport staff who were beginning to whisper urgently into radios.
A man somewhere behind the circle muttered, “Jesus.” Three minutes passed. Four. The AED prompted again. Shock.
And then — A breath. Ugly. Wet. But real. Her fingers returned to his neck. There. Faint but undeniable. “Pulse present,” she said, and for the first time there was something almost like relief in her voice. She rolled him carefully, monitored airway, adjusted his head position, speaking calmly to him though he was still barely conscious. “Stay with me.”
His eyelids fluttered. Confusion swam there at first. Then focus. Then something else. His gaze locked on her face as if he were staring at a ghost. His voice, when it emerged, was raw and cracked, but there was no mistaking the clarity behind it. “Raptor Three…” The words were barely audible. She froze. “…you were KIA.”
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