The medical section was the far end of the warehouse, behind a row of plastic curtains on frames. There were folding beds and equipment trolleys, and a smell of antiseptic so strong that it took over the diesel. Medics moved between the beds.
At the nearest one a woman was bent over a soldier's arm, winding a bandage round it.
She was in her late twenties, with dark red hair pulled back and pinned, and freckles across her nose. She wore the plain scrubs of the medical staff. She looked up when they came through the curtain and did not look pleased to see them.
"Kelleher. That was meant to be here at seven."
"I know, Ruth, I got held up at the—"
"I don't care." She did not look away from the arm. "On the table at the back. The steel one. Not the one with the instruments on it, the other one."
"Right you are," said Eamon, as if that was what he had been about to say.
James and Finn put the box on the steel table.
