Captain Moustaffa was dead.
“Huxley,” Norman yelled.
“Yes sir.” Huxley maintained an impassive attitude. He was the only respiratory tech on duty this Christmas. “What went wrong here? Moustaffa’s airway became patent right after you changed machines?” Norman would have to explain the death to the MOOD and the XO.
“I don’t know sir.” Huxley’s response was mechanical and uncaring. “Machines fail, sir.”
“I have to call the MOOD and he has to call the exec about this death.” Norman glared at Huxley. “I’m going to need a better answer than that, Huxley. Write something technically adept in the patient’s chart right now.” Norman picked up the phone to page Dr. Friendly.
“I saw you take something out of the old Byrd tubing, Huxley.” Zettler sidled up next to the respiratory tech. “What was that all about?”
“It was just a mucous plug but it shouldn’t have caused the obstruction ma’am.” Huxley began to sweat. He walked away from her. Something about Zettler initiated a grain of fear. It bothered him that any woman could do that to him. I’ll have to keep an eye on that bitch. She was the one involved in the secret B-2 psychiatric affair of over a year ago. He heard the incident could have toppled the command structure of the Hospital. Some deal had been made to hush it up. Zettler had power. Well so do I.
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