Medic!
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 3
The shoot house smelled like gun smoke and sweat. Maria knelt beside the simulated casualty—Petty Officer Chen, playing the role of a SEAL with a sucking chest wound and deteriorating respiratory status.
Petty Officer Third Class Julian Remmick stood three feet away with a stopwatch and a clipboard, his expression giving nothing away. He’d been evaluating her for the past ninety minutes through increasingly complex trauma scenarios. This was the final one.
Maria’s hands moved with practiced precision. “Tension pneumothorax, right side. Decreased breath sounds, tracheal deviation, jugular vein distension.” She already had the needle decompression kit in her hand. “Performing needle thoracostomy, second intercostal space, midclavicular line.”
She inserted the 14-gauge catheter at the precise angle, felt the subtle pop as it penetrated the pleural space. The hiss of escaping air confirmed the diagnosis.
Chen, who’d been acting progressively more hypoxic, took a deep theatrical breath. “Oh thank God, Doc. I can breathe again.”
“Stay in character, Chen,” Julian said without looking up from his notes.
Maria completed the procedure, taped the catheter in place, and reassessed. “Respirations improving, oxygen saturation rising. Patient stable for transport.” She looked up at Julian. “CASEVAC brief: single casualty, penetrating thoracic trauma with tension pneumothorax, successfully decompressed, stable vitals, ready for immediate evacuation to surgical capability.”
Julian made a final note on his clipboard. “Time: four minutes, thirty-two seconds from initial assessment to stabilization. That’s well within acceptable parameters.” He glanced at Morrison, who’d been observing from the corner. “Sir, she’s good. Better than good. Her trauma management is textbook, and she’s faster than most corpsmen I’ve evaluated.”
Morrison nodded. “Agreed. Perez, you pass medical quals. Outstanding performance.” He checked his watch. “We’ve got thirty minutes before the next training block. Everyone grab chow and—”
The alarm cut him off.
A klaxon shrieked through the training facility, the sound piercing and immediate. Red lights began strobing along the walls.
Then the base-wide announcement system crackled to life, a voice tight with controlled urgency:
“ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL. ACTIVE SHOOTER, BUILDING 347. MULTIPLE CASUALTIES REPORTED. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. REPEAT: THIS IS NOT A DRILL. ALL NON-ESSENTIAL PERSONNEL SHELTER IN PLACE. SECURITY ALERT CONDITION ONE. RAPID RESPONSE TEAMS REPORT TO STAGING AREA ALPHA.”
The announcement repeated. The klaxon continued its mechanical scream.
Morrison’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant. Training instructor became tactical commander. “Simmons, confirm location of Building 347.”
Brad already had his phone out, pulling up the base map. “Admin building, east side of the complex. About two klicks from here.” He looked up, face grim. “That’s personnel records, finance, family services. Lots of civilians.”
“Fuck.” Morrison’s jaw clenched. “Alright, listen up! We’re the closest armed response team on base. Gear up, full combat load, real ammunition. Chen, Ramirez, you’re primary assault. Thompson, Williams, secondary. Simmons, you’re with me on command. Perez—”
Maria was already moving, shrugging into her plate carrier. “Sir, I’m ready.”
Morrison studied her for half a second. “This isn’t training, Perez. This is real.”
“I know, sir.”
“You’re with us. Grab your full medic rig and stay close. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
The team moved with frightening efficiency. Within ninety seconds, every operator had ditched training gear and donned full combat equipment. Rifles were loaded with live ammunition. Magazines were checked and rechecked. Maria’s medic bag—already packed for the qualification drill—got supplemented with additional trauma supplies from the training facility’s emergency stock.
Julian appeared beside her, loading his own rifle. “You good, Perez?”
“I’m good.”
Her hands automatically checked her sidearm—M9 Beretta, loaded, one in the chamber, safety on. The weight was familiar.
Morrison’s voice cut through the organized chaos. “Two vehicles! Chen, you’re driving lead. Simmons, you’ve got second. Move!”
They poured out of the shoot house into the California sunlight. Two black Humvees sat idling in the parking area. Maria climbed into the second vehicle with Morrison, Brad, and Thompson. The doors were barely closed before Chen floored the accelerator.
The base flashed past—buildings, training facilities, personnel running for cover. Sirens wailed in the distance. The radio crackled with fragmented reports:
“ ... multiple shooters...”
“ ... casualties in the main lobby...”
“ ... need medical, multiple GSWs...”
Morrison keyed his radio. “All units, this is SEAL Team Five responding from the training facility. ETA to Building 347, ninety seconds. Request sitrep.”
The response came from Base Security: “Team Five, be advised: at least three hostile shooters confirmed inside Building 347. Unknown number of casualties. Building is NOT secured. SWAT is en route but you’re first on scene.”
“Copy that. Team Five is going in.”
The Humvees screamed around a corner. Building 347 came into view—a three-story administrative structure. The front entrance was visible, but the approach was completely exposed. Open ground with no cover.
Chen brought the lead vehicle to a stop on the east side of the building where a service entrance offered concealment. Morrison’s vehicle pulled in behind.
The team deployed, weapons oriented on the building.
Morrison assessed quickly. “East entrance. Single door, limited visibility. Chen, Thompson, you’re breaching. Ramirez, Williams, follow and clear left. Simmons and I go right. Perez, you’re behind me. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. Your job is casualties. Clear?”
“Clear, sir.”
They stacked at the door. Chen tested the handle—unlocked. He pulled it open and Thompson flowed through, rifle up, sweeping the immediate interior.
“Clear!”
The team moved in tactical sequence. Maria entered behind Morrison, medic bag on her shoulder, rifle in low ready.
They were in a hallway leading to the main lobby. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. The smell hit her immediately—gun smoke, blood, fear.
They moved down the hallway. Reached the corner to the main lobby.
Morrison held up a fist. Everyone stopped.
He peered around the corner, then pulled back. His face was grim. “Three bodies front entrance. All dead. One casualty approximately forty feet into the lobby, in front of the info desk. Active bleeding. Unknown shooter positions.”
Brad leaned in. “Who’s the casualty?”
“Can’t ID from here. SEAL gear, looks like Team Three.”
Maria shifted position to see past Morrison’s shoulder. The lobby was large, open—high ceiling, polished floors, an information desk in the center. A man in combat fatigues lay motionless in front of the desk, surrounded by a spreading pool of blood. Too much blood.
Arterial bleed. Had to be. The pool was growing even as she watched.
Morrison keyed his radio. “Base Security, Team Five is inside Building 347, east entrance. We have visual on one casualty, appears to be arterial hemorrhage. Need immediate casualty evacuation standby.”
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