FIVE YEARS, TWENTY-SEVEN DAYS and ten hours since she left and swore never to return. Anna watched the swirls of aquamarine, green and royal blue surrounding the little patch of island she once called home. A tiny drop of land in the bucket of the great Pacific Ocean. At ten thousand feet, the view was breathtakingly beautiful, but as the helicopter dropped, the serene vision gave way to the carnage of broken buildings and debris-littered streets. She swallowed hard.
Anna was the only passenger on board, so as soon as they touched down, she unbuckled, grabbed her duffel bag and hopped out. Her boots hit the muddy ground with a squelch. She pulled down the sunglasses parked on top of her head and raised her arm to shield her face from the stinging wind kicked up by the still-revolving helicopter rotors.
This was the golf course where she and Nico were married. It looked far worse on the ground than it did from the air. The pristine green lawn with perfectly planned hills and flower beds was gone. Tree branches were everywhere, strewn about with random garbage. This is the least damaged part of the island? A crushing vise gripped her heart. Is Nico alive? She hadn’t been able to get through to their house on Tumon Bay; the landlines and cell towers were out.
“Captain! You okay?”
Anna turned to see the pilot carrying a box. He tilted his head toward the rest of the cargo, which he had unloaded from the helicopter and set on the ground. How long had she been standing there? She looked toward the medical camp. Tents were set a hundred feet from where she stood, their dull beige forlorn against the calm blue sky.
Anna swung the duffel on her back, looping the handles around her shoulders so she could carry it like a backpack. Her arms protested as she lifted a heavy box. It had been more than a month since her last deployment, and her muscles were a little out of shape.
She carried the box to a waiting staff member, then set down her bag and helped the pilot carry the rest of the supplies from the makeshift helipad. When they were down to the last box, the pilot stepped back into the cockpit, waving to her as he started the rotors.
The helicopter rose and disappeared from view. There was no way off the island now; she was stuck here. Again. The permanent ache in her heart gnawed at her.
Picking up the remaining box, she walked back to the bright-faced staffer. His crisp uniform, regulation lined badges, and chipper hello told her it was his first deployment. She nodded to him and handed over the box.
“Where do I report?”
He pointed her to the medical command tent. She unzipped the outer pocket of her bag to remove her papers. As she entered the tent, her eye caught the big digital clock that hung from a wire. Forty-five hours and twenty-two minutes. That’s how long ago the tsunami had struck. It was also the clock that would determine when she could leave. Around the time it struck 168 hours, the actively wounded would slow to a trickle, mostly limited to those hurt as a result of the rescue efforts. When the red digits ticked to 381 hours, the rescue operation would be over and the focus would turn to recovering bodies. By then, plenty of relief organizations would crowd the small island with their staff outnumbering the injured. She’d be replaced by social workers who would stay here for months dealing with the mental trauma that would haunt people for generations to come.
“Took you long enough to get here.”
She whirled to come face-to-face with a woman dressed in blue scrubs. Rear Admiral Linda Tucker was Anna’s height, around five foot six, and had red hair streaked in spots to faded copper. Her face sagged with exhaustion but her gray eyes sparked as she surveyed Anna.
The Public Health Service was a uniformed division but worked more like a health care service than a military unit, so Anna didn’t salute and was happy to note that her new supervisor was wearing scrubs. Some PHS field commanders insisted they wear their uniforms, which inevitably made the days uncomfortable. Yet despite this concession, she knew Linda Tucker’s reputation and braced herself.
“I got here as soon as I could,” Anna replied evenly.
“I expected you yesterday.”
Anna had flown from Washington, DC—where she’d been visiting with her sister, Caro—to Japan, where she had to wait for the long-haul military transport helicopter to bring her to Guam. She’d been traveling for twenty-three hours and fifty-three minutes straight.
Shrugging, she settled for a nonchalant. “I was delayed.” What she didn’t say was that she’d come close to being discharged from the PHS for defying orders to board the first transport to Guam. It had taken a call from the surgeon general’s assistant with a plea from the SG himself to get her on board. She was the only PHS officer who spoke Chamorro.
“Well, get changed and meet me back here, we have a lot to do.” Dr. Tucker turned and bent over the newly arrived cardboard boxes, efficiently slicing through the tape. Anna handed her papers to the clerk, a young man with a pockmarked face who looked pained to be there.
Anna scanned the tent while the clerk typed her details into the computer. The tent looked like every other medical command center she’d seen. Every available inch of space was being put to use. Corners were stacked with cardboard supply boxes, the center dominated by U-shaped desks cluttered with laptops and assorted materials. A large fan blew in fresh air from a makeshift window, but the heat was still oppressive. She ran her finger under her collar and twisted her neck, trying to get some air between her sticky skin and the wilted cloth of her once-starched khaki uniform. She