by Elle James
“Rooftop clear,” he said into his radio headset, and he hurried back down the ladder to the ground.
Irish nodded toward the door to the structure he’d just descended.
Standing clear of the entrance, Caesar pushed open the door. He fit his NVGs in place and dropped low before peeking around the corner. The room they stepped into was empty except for a sleeping mat in one corner. The only other room was empty, as well.
When Caesar emerged, he saw Tuck and the rest of the team had entered the village.
Caesar, Irish and two others took the left side while Tuck, Sting Ray, Gator, Fish and Dustman checked the buildings on the right. From what their contact had relayed, the men were being held in the center of the village in the largest structure with a rounded top.
Moving quietly through the streets, the team worked their way past several darkened buildings, sticking to the shadows, making little or no sound. As Caesar neared the center building, he stopped and waited for Tuck to come abreast of his position.
Light shone around the edges of the doorway and angry voices sounded inside. A guard squatted near the door, leaning his back against the mud and straw outer wall, an AK-47 lying across his knees. He rocked back and forth as if struggling to stay awake.
Tuck motioned Dustman forward. “Take the guard. Nacho, cover. I’ll go in first.”
Dustman edged along the base of the wall, his knife in hand.
Caesar raised his rifle to his shoulder and aimed at the guard. If the guard saw Dustman before he reached him, he wouldn’t get off a round before Caesar plugged a bullet between his eyes.
Dustman made the corner of the building without being spotted and had just started along the wall toward the guard when a man stepped through the doorway and spoke to the guard in short, clipped tones.
The guard pushed to his feet.
Dustman, already committed, ran the last five steps and plowed into the two men, knocking them to the ground. Swede and Tuck converged and dispatched the two men.
The noise generated in the struggle apparently drew the attention of the men inside. Two men in the Perahan Tunbans, or baggy pants and long shirts, of the region rushed the door, carrying AK-47s. When the first man cleared the doorway, Tuck yanked him to the side.
Swede reached in and pulled the other one out. Both men were killed with a quick slice of a knife across the throat, severing their vocal cords before they could cry out.
Tuck and Swede entered the building followed by Caesar and Irish. Dustman, Fish and the others held back, ready to enter if the going got rough.
They followed the voices down a short hallway and burst into a room, where two Taliban men held up a German soldier between them while another used the butt of his rifle to slam into the prisoner’s face. Three other German solders lay on the ground at the center of the room. Several Taliban men sat in a broad circle watching.
Tuck fired, hitting the man holding the gun. The other two dropped the sagging captive and dove toward the sides of the room.
Shots rang out.
“Bleibt unten!” Tuck yelled, warning the Germans to stay down. Not that the soldiers were moving.
From the brief glimpse Caesar got of the prisoners, they’d been beaten to within an inch of their lives, if they were still alive.
Tuck and Swede dove left, firing at the Taliban men on that side of the room. Irish and Caesar dropped, rolled and came up firing at the men on the right.
Highly trained and experienced at close combat, the SEALs eliminated the opposition one by one.
“We have a truck load of trouble a couple miles out, headed our way.” Big Bird reported. “Damn. I spot a man running toward them.”
“Take him before they see him,” Tuck ordered. “Any injuries to the team?”
No one responded.
Tuck nodded. “Good. Grab a German and let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
Caesar bent to one of the enemy, the scar on the man’s cheek triggering an image in his mind of a photograph he’d seen recently. “Hey, I’ve seen this face.” He bent to touch his fingers to the base of the man’s throat. “He’s alive.”
Tuck leaned over the man. “Fuck. That’s Hassan Turbani or something like that. He’s pretty high up the food chain of Taliban leadership.”
“Hassani Turabi.” Caesar remembered the name and the picture he’d seen on the Al Jazeera news station. “He’s the bastard responsible for the deaths of our six U.S. soldiers that were paraded before the cameras and then beheaded last fall.”
Irish pressed his rifle muzzle to the man’s head. “The son of a bitch needs to die.”
Tuck’s hand shot out. “Wait. They still have four U.S Army captives hidden away somewhere in the hills. He might know where. Bring him along.”
“I’m not carrying him,” Irish said, lifting one of the Germans in a fireman carry. “After what he did to our guys and these Germans…”
“Shooting him would be too easy,” Swede said, his jaw clenched.
“Save him for our intel folks,” Tuck insisted. “Our soldiers need every chance we can give them.”
Though the action went against everything he stood for, Caesar threw the man over his shoulder and headed for the door. They had to get out of the village before the truckload of Taliban got there first.
Dustman entered the building and collected the fourth German. Dead or alive, they had to get them out.
The five men emerged from the building to the sound of gunfire.
“Sniper on that rooftop.” Fish pointed to a spot where tracer rounds lit up the night. Bullets hit the dirt at their feet, encouraging them to move faster. “Gator’s on him.”
A moment later, the gunfire stopped and Gator ran to catch up to them. With Fish, Sting Ray, Hank and Gator covering for them, the team made it to the entrance to the village.
“Tuck, I’ve got your back, there have to be fifteen or twenty of them loaded into the back of that pickup,” Big Bird said. “And I didn’t bring my rocket launcher.”
The men ran with sluggish steps, hampered by the dead weight of five injured people.
“Holy shit! They have an RPG! Get down.” Big Bird shouted into their headsets.
As one, they dropped to the ground, Caesar and Sting Ray bringing up the rear.
A round slammed into the ground behind them, the explosion rocking the earth.
Shards of shrapnel pierced the air and something ripped into Caesar’s lower back, buttocks and thigh, a momentary flash of heat.
“Go, go, go!” Tuck shouted. “Before he loads another round.”
Caesar staggered to his feet, and looked over his shoulder where Sting Ray had been. He lay on the ground, moaning, his hand pressed to his side. “Sting Ray’s been hit!” He started to throw the Taliban man on the ground, but Dustman beat him to Sting Ray, looped the man’s arm over his shoulder and half dragged, half-carried the man up the hill.
Caesar pushed on, his legs wobbling beneath him as he climbed the hill.
Just a little farther.
His mind focused on making the helicopter, images of Erin popped up in him thoughts, a reminder of all he had to live for, all he had waiting for him to return to camp.
Just a little farther.
The men topped the hill and let gravity hurry them down the other side to where the helicopters had landed.
A few feet from the chopper, Caesar’s left leg gave out, he dropped the Taliban leader and crashed to the ground, face first. The jolt made him see stars and gray fog settled around the edges of his vision. He tried to rise, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate.
Tuck and the other men loaded the Germans on board the helicopters.
“Wait,” Caesar tried to cry out over the noise of the engines and blades thumping the air. His voice was weak, his body weaker. If they couldn’t hear him and if each person thought he’d gotten on the other craft, they wouldn’t know they’d left him behind until too late.
Again, he tried to get his feet under him b
ut his muscles wouldn’t move. Twenty yards, that’s all he needed. Twenty yards and he’d be on one of the choppers.
One of the helicopters lifted off, hugging the nap of the earth, and swept away.
Caesar clawed at the ground, inching himself toward the remaining chopper. At the rate he was moving, the chopper would leave before he got there.
Chapter Four
‡
His legs basically useless, Caesar gritted his teeth and focused on crawling to the helicopter, dragging himself along the rocky ground, one agonizing foot at a time. Movement to his rear made him look back at the silhouette of a large man carrying a rifle on a bipod. Pain stabbed through him like a red-hot poker, blinding him. When his vision cleared, he focused on the big man standing beside him.
Big Bird leaned over him. “Nacho, you need a hand?”
Relief flooded him and Caesar nearly wept for joy. “I could.”
The big man flung his weapon over his back. “Got a man down out here,” he said into the headset. “Make that two.” Big Bird scooped Caesar up in his arms and carried him to the chopper, laying him out on the floor of the craft beside an injured German.
As soon as his backside touched the floor, he experienced excruciating agony. When he tried to roll over, he nearly blacked out. He ground his teeth, forced himself to his side and lay still until the dizziness receded. His lower back, buttocks and thigh went numb. Thankful the pain had disappeared, he didn’t think beyond that, just concentrated on breathing.
Dustman loaded the Taliban leader into the same craft, none too gently.
“Gotta go!” the pilot yelled.
From the corner of his eye, Caesar caught a glimpse of the truck full of Taliban. The vehicle had stopped and the men on board had all jumped down and ran toward the Blackhawk helicopter, firing their weapons.
The helicopter shuddered and then lifted off the ground. Within seconds, they were high in the sky, well out of range of small arms fire.
As the corpsman, Fish went to work on the wounds he could see and treat. The noise of the aircraft drowned out anything he might have said. When he got to Caesar, he rolled him over and grimaced. “Can’t help you there, buddy. The surgeons will have to pick out the pieces. At least you’re not bleeding like a stuck pig. Want something for the pain?”
“No. Take care of Sting Ray.” Caesar didn’t bother to tell him that he was feeling no pain. Like Fish said, not much they could do in the back of the helicopter.
“Sting Ray is coming around. He’s got a few bits of shrapnel embedded in his skin, but he’ll be okay.”
“Anyone else?” Caesar asked.
“No, we’re all accounted for and alive. The Germans are in bad shape. We’re lucky we got them out when we did or we’d have been carrying them out in body bags.”
Knowing his team was okay, Caesar relaxed and closed his eyes, the roar of the engine lulling him to sleep.
The flight back was the longest and shortest flight Caesar could ever recall. Floating in and out of consciousness, he tried not to worry about the lack of feeling or the fact he couldn’t move his legs, preferring to succumb to blessed sleep.
Caesar didn’t wake until the craft landed with a jolt on the tarmac at Bagram Airfield. Ambulances stood in a line, medics, hospital staff and volunteers converged on them as soon as the skids touched down.
The Taliban leader was last in and first out, loaded onto a backboard and transported to a waiting ambulance. When they came for Caesar, Fish stepped into their paths.
“Load him on his side, he’s got shrapnel wounds to the back, buttocks and thighs. Possible damage to the spinal cord.”
At those two words, Caesar’s heart skipped several beats and plunged to his belly. Spinal cord injury could lead to paralysis. Was that why he couldn’t feel his legs? He prayed they were wrong and wished for the pain to return. Pain meant you were still alive and able to feel.
As they maneuvered him onto a backboard on his side, the little bit of movement jolted something loose and pain ripped through his body. He moaned, biting down hard on his tongue to keep from crying out.
They settled him onto a litter and four volunteers carried him across the tarmac to a waiting ambulance.
“Caesar?” a familiar voice called out to him. Lt. McGee’s face appeared over him, her auburn brows knit in a worried frown. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he managed, the pain radiating through him like a white-hot poker being pressed against his nerves.
“We’ll get you fixed up, don’t you worry.” She squeezed his hand and moved out of the way while he was loaded into the ambulance, then she climbed in beside him, checked his pulse and blood pressure. “Talk to me.”
“No.” He clamped his jaw against another wave of pain.
“Okay, then I’ll talk to you.” She went on to talk like they were sitting over a cup of coffee in the mess tent, all the while her hands moved over him, establishing an IV drip. “Do you like dogs? I do. One of these days I hope to have two golden retrievers. Of course, it’ll have to be when I’m no longer flying CCATT missions.” She leaned down and smiled. “Are you a sports fan? I have to admit, I’m a sucker for a good hockey game. I like the violence and the passion. I know, I’m supposed to be a peace-loving nurse, but give me a fight in the hockey rink and I’m on fire.” She chuckled, the sound forced, the worried frown never leaving her brow. “What’s your pain level on a scale of one to ten?”
At that particular moment, he was back to no feeling. “Zero.”
The V of her brows deepened and she reached out to touch his leg. “Feel that?”
She’d touched him? He shook his head. “No.”
“When they were loading you onto the backboard, you were moaning.”
“Pain level was at eleven then.”
“And nothing now?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay. Could be shrapnel pressing against the spinal cord. We’ll get you into X-ray and check it out.” She gripped his hand and held it the rest of the way to the field hospital.
Being unloaded from the ambulance, the shift once again triggered the pain. He clenched his fists and grunted.
“Hurt?” Erin asked. “That’s a good sign.”
“Doesn’t feel so good,” he said through clenched teeth.
“We’ll get you on some morphine as soon as possible.” Erin leaned over him and whispered in his ear, “I’ll see you in a little while.” She brushed a chaste kiss across his temple and released his hand.
He was wheeled into the hospital and straight into surgery. Once the anesthesiologist fitted the mask over his face, he was out, his last thought before he drifted off was to send a prayer to God that he would wake up still possessing the ability to walk.
Erin didn’t have time to worry about Caesar in surgery. As soon as she got to the hospital, she was ordered to report to the C-17 that had landed an hour earlier and prep it for litters and patients. The state department wanted the Germans transported back to Germany as soon as they’d been stabilized.
She worked beside the other members of her team and the cargo master to transform the cargo area of the big plane into a fully-functional flying ambulance and intensive care unit. Equipment was moved on board, latched down and powered up, with technicians testing the functionality.
While the surgeons operated and did what they could, the CCATT teams worked the inside of the aircraft. Hours later, they were given the word that the patients were ready for transport. The team and every volunteer they could muster moved patients from the hospital to the staging facility, disconnecting respiratory equipment from fixed units to mobile units and moving the patients and the apparatus to the airplane.
When another team brought the SEAL on board, Erin’s belly flipped and she hurried to his side to ensure he was carefully placed where she could keep watch over him, as well as two Germans. The other team would care for the other two Germans and the Taliban leader. The German government had balked at allowing the Taliban leade
r on German soil at Landstuhl. But the American state department insisted he get medical treatment necessary to keep him alive for interrogation purposes. As a trade for rescuing the German soldiers and delivering them home, the intel that hopefully could be gained from Hassani would guide them to the whereabouts of the four Americans still being held.
Erin monitored her patients, checking vital signs. They all slept through the take off.
The flight would be long from Bagram to Germany and she’d be on her feet the entire time. Her job was to get these boys home.
She read Caesar’s chart. The surgeon’s notes had been brief. He’d removed all but one piece of shrapnel. That one, he’d saved for the surgeon at Landstuhl, who was known for his delicate work with spinal cord injuries.
Erin gazed down at the big SEAL. All the muscles in the world would be useless if the damage to his spinal cord was permanent. Her heart always bled for the soldiers who made it back to the states crippled for life. What a difference from the young men who’d walked into the war on two feet.
“Hey, no sad faces,” a voice whispered, pulling her out of her melancholy.
Her heart warmed and she touched his arm. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“Thirsty.” He smacked parched lips and winked. “I was dreaming about one short, hot drink of water.”
“That phrase only works with long cool drinks of water.” She got him a cup of water and held up a straw to his lips. “Go slow.”
“What’s the prognosis?”
“They removed most of the shrapnel.”
“Most?”
“You’ll have to see a surgeon when we get to Landstuhl to get the last one.”
“I take it, that one’s lodged close to my spine?” He closed his eyes, his brows creased.
“That’s the one. Are you feeling the pain again?”
“A little.”
“Yeah. There are no heroes where pain is concerned.” She reached for his IV. “I can give you more morphine.”
