The Sheikh Surgeon's Proposal

An endless desert speeding by.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MALEK READ THE co-ordinates on his GPS as soon as the quarry came into sight and barked them in his cellphone to the rescue helicopters.

He brought his trailer to a halt as close as he could get and jumped out, his eyes taking in the scene.

A two-hundred-foot-high rock-cutting, gravel-extracting quarry hewn out of Aj-Jalameed mountain, now almost unrecognizable after the the massive avalanche.

Just imagining the effect it had had on flesh and blood, that there were people below that rubble, dead or dying or even only injured, in pain, trapped in horror for the long hours it had taken to alert them and bring them here. His blood boiled.

He hadn’t known this quarry existed. And neither had any officials. This was an unsanctioned project, erected with no safety protocols. Those responsible for this exploitation of workers and resources would answer to him in person. But that would come later. He had to save their victims first.

And for that he needed Janaan with him.

He swung around to the two ambulances that had stopped behind him, found her jumping down from one, followed by the other personnel, rushing towards the scene. Not towards him.

And why would that wrench out his heart?

He’d told her he’d keep his distance, his implication that she must do the same loud and clear. And—ya Rahmaan ya Raheem—she’d done worse than that. She’d vanished. Only the evidence of the incredible job she was doing told him that she was still around.

He spent his days going insane, her scent filling his lungs, her voice ringing in his ears, her eyes and smile emblazoned on his retinas. He saw her everywhere, only to find her nowhere. Nowhere but on his mind, indelibly engraved. Then had come the nights. Soaked in delirium, his body convulsing with need, his heart corroding with hunger for one smile, one twinkle of her precious eyes.

He missed her with every breath. He missed her every breath. Nothing, not even preoccupation or exhaustion, lifted the longing, the gnawing. And she was there, within reach, and he couldn’t reach out and take all the joy and ecstasy her essence and passion could bring him.

You’re not important, ya moghaffal. Get to your casualties.

He ran after her towards the casualties who were strewn on the ground like broken toys. Gaunt men, working in inhumane conditions, for a pittance no doubt, now covered in rock powder, as if they’d been exhumed from their graves.

Could they be Damhoorians? Were any of his people in such a depth of need they’d debase and endanger themselves to that extent for crumbs? Or were they Ashgoonians? Or maybe Nussoorans?

He’d get to the bottom of this. And he’d put an end to it. But first those men.

Janaan and her team were already all around them, emergency bags open, supplies lined up and gurneys ready to transfer the most badly injured to the ambulances or to OR.

Saeed caught up with him, a dusty, scared man stumbling in his wake. “That’s the foreman. He says his men pulled out those twelve with their bare hands. Two are dead. Twenty-four remain buried.”

Before Malek could ask the first thing that burst into his mind, Janaan asked it. “Those men—how long were they buried?”

Saeed translated her question to the foreman. The man stammered out the answer. From one to three hours.

“And how long ago were they rescued?” she pressed.

The answer was the same.

She reached the same conclusion he did, announced it to her team. “We have to assume they developed crush syndrome.” At the hesitant looks from those whose specialties had nothing to do with trauma, she elaborated, “After being crushed for more than an hour, on being released, crush syndrome develops, resulting in severe hypotension, renal failure and irreversible shock.”

“So they might have only managed to kill them by pulling them out?” Steve Mittman asked. Malek didn’t like the way the big, blond man was looking at Janaan. Didn’t like it at all.

Janaan nodded. “Rescuing people from underneath rubble, without initiating aggressive fluid replacement during or right after the rescue, is termed ‘rescue death’.”

“At least we’ll be right here when the rest are being pulled out.” That was Hessuh, his pride and joy, prototype of the new breed of female Damhoorian doctors. She’d gotten so close to Janaan, gotten to share her trailer, breathe the same air. He envied her so much, he couldn’t bear looking at her.

And there was Janaan, exchanging that look of unspoken understanding and camaraderie with her, not with him!

“For now, regardless of other injuries,” Janaan said, “some may be beyond reach if the six-hour window when the syndrome becomes irreversible has passed. So here’s the treatment plan.” She rose to her feet, still not looking at him. “Pick a patient, then bilateral peripheral lines, glucose-saline, two liters over the next hour, two more over the next two, twelve in all today. Then airway management, ventilation and examination.”

Then she fell to her knees between two of the casualties.

She behaved as if he wasn’t there. Was she abiding by his order, or was she punishing him for it?

No—that would be manipulation and by now he was sure she didn’t have a manipulative cell in her body. Maybe she knew they could deal with this, that his expertise would come later.

“Let me help.”

Steve. With his boyish good looks and hot eyes. Advancing on Janaan, offering assistance, declaring interest. Hunger.

Janaan looked up, gave a tiny smile. A smile. Of acceptance, encouragement …? W’Ullahi ma beyseer!

By God, he wouldn’t let it be. He fell to his knees by her side, growled up at Steve, “If you don’t have a patient, help in the rescue efforts. The helicopters will be here any minute.”

He dismissed Steve from his focus, turned his eyes on Janaan. Her face was still averted, scrunched up in … was it concentration? She cut off her patient’s sleeves then reached for IV giving sets. He closed his hand over hers, taking one from her hand.

Her gasp blasted through him like a hot desert gale, her soft, capable hand going limp in his and letting both sets fall.

Still keeping her eyes off him, she withdrew her hand, turned to the others. “Elaine, Alyaa, Miguel, place catheters, then monitor urine output and pH. If it’s dark brown or red then it has myoglobin. To flush it out to keep the kidneys working, we need to achieve a diuresis of at least 300 millilitres per hour with a urine pH of more than 6.5.”

They nodded, got to it at once. They clearly considered Janaan their triage officer, even in Malek’s presence. Janaan had really won his team’s unswerving respect and obedience during the past two weeks.