Chapter 33 - The Romanian Corridor
Within forty-eight hours of the raid in Mannheim, the transatlantic paper trail led Sophia’s investigative task force southeast toward Mihail Kogălniceanu Air Base near Constanța, Romania, overlooking the Black Sea.
Here, at the operational frontier of NATO’s eastern flank, American paratroopers lived in rugged field tents and modular barracks, conducting live-fire artillery drills and continuous perimeter defense in the freezing mud.
In the base’s austere field clinic, Sophia and Major Alan Miller met Captain Rebecca Torres, a young combat surgeon who had been treating soldiers injured during a high-tempo cold-weather training jump.
Captain Torres stood beside a row of field cots where two paratroopers were recovering from compound fractures. The young doctor looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, her uniform smudged with antiseptic and field grime.
"General Carter," Torres said, saluting with an arm trembling from fatigue. "We weren't expecting corps command."
"At ease, Captain," Sophia said gently, looking around the cramped, drafty medical tent. "Show me your surgical diagnostic kits."
Torres gave a hollow, bitter laugh. "Diagnostic kits? Ma'am, we’ve been waiting on our scheduled CT scanner and modular sterile field units since November. Every time I submit an emergency requisition through the theater logistics depot at Mannheim, Colonel Vance’s office kicks it back with a notification that field medical modules are on 'priority allocation reserve' in Germany. We’ve had to medevac soldiers four hours overland by ambulance just to get standard X-rays."
Alan Miller clenched his fists, glancing at Sophia.
Sophia stepped over to one of the injured paratroopers, a young corporal with his leg in a traction splint. She placed a gentle, reassuring hand on the young soldier’s shoulder.
"You’re going to get proper care, Corporal," Sophia promised softly. "Hold the line."
She turned back to Captain Torres. "Captain, your medical equipment is not in Germany. It’s currently sitting in a private bonded warehouse seven miles from here, inside the commercial port of Constanța, waiting to be loaded onto a commercial offshore drilling support platform."
Torres’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief. "Our surgical units? Being used by a private drilling company?"
"Not for much longer," Sophia said.
She stepped outside into the biting Black Sea wind, where Major Drake was waiting beside a convoy of four up-armored Humvees carrying Romanian Military Police and American CID investigators.
"Drake, do we have the port intercept warrants signed by the Romanian Ministry of Justice?"
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"Signed and verified twenty minutes ago, General," Drake answered, cocking his weapon and locking it into safe. "The commercial freighter Vanguard Horizon has been placed under maritime quarantine by the Romanian Coast Guard. They can't leave the dock."
"Move out," Sophia commanded. "Let's return this equipment to the doctors who actually save lives."
