Ghost pos-1

by John Ringo

  He nodded at the group and then walked out of the room.

  * * *

  “Sergeant Major Gunther, Third Batt, Rakasans,” the NCO said as he neared the entrance followed by a group of soldiers carrying BDU tops in their arms. “We brought clothes.”

  “PO Roman,” Roman said. “My L-T wants us to hand them out as the girls come up. We’ve been around them for a couple of hours now, they’re used to us.” His jaw flexed and he shook his head. “Try to get your guys to not ogle.”

  “Already covered,” the NCO said tightly. “Where do you want them?”

  “Meat,” Roman said. “Grab an armful and station yourself on the landing. You’re about to be very popular.” Meat grabbed the first two armfuls and headed down the stairs.

  “We’ve got enough choppers to lift all the girls and the team,” Gunther said. “Then the choppers will turn around and pull us out.”

  “Have fun sitting on this patch,” Roman said. “It’s no fun. We need two stretchers.”

  “Incoming,” Gunther said, looking over his shoulder. “Medics! Stretchers!”

  “Okay, good stick whoever did it.” Specialist Calvin Thomas was a pretty good medic in his opinion. He was an EMT in New York on September 11, 2001 and volunteered for the U.S. Army on October 1, as soon as they were sure there wasn’t anything left to do at Ground Zero. He’d seen his share of shot-up bodies, both in New York and since. In his expert medical opinion, the guy on the floor should have already been dead. On the other hand, he’d seen people survive that should have died. And people die that should have lived. You just never knew. “Any idea what type he is?”

  “O pos,” Chief Adams said.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure,” Adams said. “I know him like a brother.”

  “Good,” Thomas replied. “Let’s get him on the stretcher. Then I’ll run some blood and intubate.”

  Ghost was lifted onto the stretcher as the medic pulled out a unit of O positive blood. Since almost anyone could take O pos, he had carried it down to the room just in case. He had other types in a cooler in the chopper. He put a blood pressure cuff on the guy’s arm and shook his head at the reading.

  “Okay, easy with the stretcher,” he said to the four infantrymen that had accompanied him into the bunker. “And keep your eyes on where you’re going, not the view.”

  “The girl goes, too,” Chief Adams said. “And the two girls with her. Her name is Rachel, I don’t have a last. No idea of her medical. Call the two girls with her Bambi and Thumper.”

  “Ooo-kay,” Thomas said, shaking his head. “Lift away, boys.”

  The stretchers were carried, carefully, up the stairs and then across the open area to the waiting choppers. Bambi and Thumper each gave Meat a quick kiss and then donned the BDU tops, buttoning them hurriedly. They barely had time to scramble into the chopper before the pilot revved the engines and lifted off the ground.

  “Is he going to live?” Britney asked.

  “Maybe,” Thomas said. “His blood pressure is so low, though,” he added, giving the liter of blood a squeeze. He had one more liter of O-pos and after that he’d be pumping in water where blood should go.

  He slid an oxygen tube up Ghost’s nose, then a breathing tube down his throat. He ran a cervical collar around his neck, for what good it would do, and checked the bandages.

  “SEALs,” he muttered, looking at the tampons and pads. He put pressure bandages on each of the wounds, right on top of the field expedient bandages. When he was done he checked for a pulse again and blanched.

  “Crap,” he muttered, pulling out a field defibrillator.

  “Can I assist?” Bambi asked.

  “You trained?” Thomas asked. “Not right now. Clear.” He placed the pads on Ghost’s body and set the sensor in place, hitting the on button of the defib kit then sitting back.

  “Aren’t you supposed to…” Thumper said.

  “Wait.”

  “Checking for pulse,” the machine said in a female voice. “No pulse. Charging, charging, stand clear, CLEAR.” There was a sharp whine from the machine and Ghost’s body jerked but didn’t arch convulsively. “Checking for pulse. Pulse forty-five.”

  “It does it all,” Bambi said. “I’ve never used one, but I’ve heard of them.”

  “I’m leaving it in place,” Thomas said, going back to his bandaging. The liter was about out, so he changed it for a fresh one and ran another IV, after three sticks, to start a standard glucose drip. Anything to get the damned BP up. “Crew chief! How long?” he yelled.

  “Twenty minutes,” the crew chief yelled back over the thunder of the chopper. “There’s a field station set up.”

  “He doesn’t need a field station,” Thomas snapped. “He needs a damned class one trauma center. If we can’t get some more blood in him, his heart is going to collapse.”

  “No pulse,” the machine said. “Charging…”

  “Miss, we have to go now,” Reynolds said as carefully as he could. He’d hardly noticed the girl in the back of the room, huddled in the corner, until the rest of the girls were filing out. She had a blank stare that he’d seen in seriously shell-shocked firefight survivors. He knew she wasn’t seeing him, except, possibly, as a male shape.

  “Chief,” he called. “See if Babe is still around.”

  “I’m here, sir,” Babe said. She was still stark naked but seemed to hardly notice anymore. The SEALs, despite the lieutenant’s warning, had been solicitous to a fault. Yeah, they looked from time to time, but not in a bad way. Like Ghost, she felt she could trust them. But the girl in the back corner clearly could not. If she even noticed.

  “Hi,” Babe said, squatting down. “What’s your name?”

  The girl looked at her in fear, then shut her eyes and huddled into the corner.

  “Okay,” Babe said. “Wrong question. I know why it’s the wrong question, even. It was stupid. But, listen to me, we’re getting out of here. They’re not going to hurt us anymore. We’re safe. The Army’s here and the SEALs and they’re all good guys that aren’t going to hurt us. But we need to go.”

  “Chief,” Reynolds called. “Go get one of those BDU tops for Babe and this lady.”

  “Roger,” Chief Adams said, striding out of the room.

  “We can sedate her,” Reynolds said.

  “They gave us drugs to bring us over here,” Babe responded tightly. “If you want her to totally panic, come at her with a needle. If you want me to totally panic, bring out a needle.”

  “Gotcha,” Reynolds said, squatting down. “What can we do?”

  “If we can get some clothes on her, maybe she’ll calm down,” Babe said.

  “I was next,” the girl whispered.

  “What?” Reynolds said. “Honey, you’re safe. The bad men are all dead. You’re safe. Please, let us get you out of here.”

  “I was next,” the girl said again, looking at the far wall. “I sat next to Rachel. She was my friend.”

  “Oh, crap,” Babe said then swallowed. “When they were done with Rachel, she would have been next.”

  “I liked Clari,” the girl said, tears forming in her eyes. “She was my friend, too. And they… they…”

  “Clothes, boss,” the chief said, shaking his head. “Miss, you’re about the age of my daughter. Could you maybe put on some clothes? I know she started getting funny about being naked when she was ten. And I surely would like to get you out of here. There’s a plane waiting to take you back to the United States. Your family is waiting. Could you please come back to us?”

  The girl seemed to focus for a second and then shut her eyes, crying.

  “Don’t like to look at the room, do you?” the chief said, handing Babe a jacket and cradling the other one in his arms. “Can you let Babe put this on you?” he asked.

  The girl nodded and Babe slid her arms in the sleeves, then buttoned up the front. Then she laughed.

  “It’s… a little big,” Babe said, rolling up the sleeve
s so that the short female’s hands would show.

  “Miss,” the chief said, gently. “I know you don’t want a man touching you or even being near you. But getting out of this place with your eyes closed will be tough. Did your daddy ever carry you piggyback?”

  “Yes,” the girl said, quietly.

  “No man can hurt a girl that’s piggyback,” the chief said. “If I turn around, will you climb on my back? I can carry you out of here. I can carry you all the way home if that’s what it takes. I can carry you around the world, if that’s what it takes. You just say the word. I’ll carry you anywhere, because you look a lot like my daughter and I’d want somebody to help her if she was hurt and scared like you are.”

  The girl nodded, her eyes closed.

  “I’m going to turn around now,” the chief said, suiting actions to words, “and Babe is going to help you up on my back. Can Babe do that? She’s a girl, just like you.”

  “Okay,” the girl said in a small voice.

  “Come on,” Babe said, taking one arm and lifting it up so it touched the chief’s shoulder. As soon as the girl’s hand touched, she leaned forward and swarmed onto the SEAL’s back, wrapping her legs around his waist and grabbing his neck so hard it choked him.

  “Maybe a little lighter?” the chief gasped. “I need to breathe a little.”

  The girl loosened up as the chief carefully climbed to his feet.

  “Please take me home,” the girl whispered in his ear, crying faintly and shaking. “Please? I don’t want to be hurt. Please?”

  “I will, sweetie,” the chief said, walking carefully towards the front of the room and unconsciously moving his weapon to a tactical position. “And nobody, nobody, is going to hurt you anymore. Let me teach you a song as we go. It goes like this: Out in the wood there’s a band of small fairies if you walk unwary at night. They’re laughing and drinking and soon you’ll be thinking, that you’d like to join in their life…”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “All of the surviving hostages have been extracted and are on their way to Germany on a medical evacuation flight,” Secretary Brandeis told the packed audience. “They will be given a brief medical check in Germany, then returned to the States. Our first priority is getting them back to their families, although some of them are in poor psychological condition. On that score, they have bonded rather strongly with the SEAL team that was dropped in to hold the position and the team will be accompanying them all the way back to the States. This is at the rather pointed request of some of the young ladies who refused to board the evac plane unless the SEALs went too.

  “The person known as Ghost is on the same evac plane and is in critical condition. Military doctors at the transfer point in Iraq stabilized him enough for movement but it’s touch and go. Doctors have told me that we might not know for days, or even weeks, if he will live.

  “As to Syria,” the secretary continued, keying an overhead monitor that showed an oblique view of the set of buildings people had come to know, “this is Aleppo Four. A B-2 has been orbiting Aleppo Four continuously since the SEAL team was inserted. All of our personnel have been evacuated. And this is our answer to Aleppo Four.”

  There was a brief pause and then the screen flashed white and clicked out to a broader view that showed a boiling mushroom cloud.

  “That is the lowest power nuclear weapon in our arsenal,” Brandeis said, coldly. “Before anyone asks the question about ‘won’t that make people accelerate their WMD plans,’ I’ll make it simple. As our President once said: Bring it on. Every insane group of leaders in the world is trying to craft nuclear weapons, poison gas and biological agents. They have been for decades. Despite what the people in the press think, Saddam was working on it very hard. For today, we are not going into Syria. The state of war still holds. We can now confirm that Basser Assad was present at Aleppo Four, apparently watching the rapings and torture from behind a two-way mirror. He was killed by Ghost. And he was not the only person killed by Ghost.” Brandeis keyed the screen again and a body was shown. It was twisted in death and someone in chemical protective clothing was holding the head more or less in place.

  He waited until the shouts, from gleeful to horrified, died down and smiled.

  “So for anyone who says there was ‘no proven link to Al Qaeda,’ ” Brandeis snarled, “Agent Ghost also killed Osama Bin Laden, who was also watching the proceedings. He killed him, and Basser Assad, with the very mustard gas which was being produced in the facility. Aleppo Four is now a smoking hole. And let all of the terrorists of the world, all the governments of the world who support them, all the governments that are feverishly working on nukes and gas and germs, let all of them know that this is the end result. So, the question that you have to ask is: Exactly how far do I want to go to piss the United States off? Because now you know, that if you go far enough, what you’re going to receive is a smoking hole and an increase in background radiation. If you push us far enough, our answer is simple: nuke them until they glow and shoot them in the dark. No questions.”

  Mike’s throat was terribly sore. Then he forgot his throat as various bits of his body started informing his conscious mind just how very glad they were to have someone to complain to, finally. He managed to drag his eyes open and got a glimpse of acoustic tile.

  “I was hoping for Valhalla,” he muttered. Or tried to, it was more of a mumble. “Ow.”

  “You’re awake,” a bright young female voice said. “Don’t try to talk. Are you in any pain?”

  “Uhhh!” he grunted.

  “Let me get you some water for your throat,” the voice said, “then I’ll get the doctor and see if your medication needs to be adjusted.”

  A tube was inserted in his mouth and he got a brief flash of one of those unpleasant multicolored smocks nurses had taken to wearing. So much for Valkyries and feasting.

  He closed his eyes as the nurse squeaked out in her rubber-soled shoes and wondered where he was. The U.S., probably: the nurse didn’t have the “feel” of military nurses. Which meant he’d been out for a while.

  “So you’re finally awake,” a female voice said.

  The face that leaned into view wasn’t bad, but it was terribly professional. Brown hair pulled back in a bun, more handsome than pretty. Nice eyes, but a trifle cold.

  “How are you feeling?” the doctor asked. “There’s going to be a high degree of soreness from the surgery, but is there any intense pain? Pain remediation at this point is important.”

  “If I don’t move,” he said slowly, wondering why he couldn’t talk more clearly, “I’m okay.”

  “That’s the idea,” the doctor said. “Don’t move. With the level of morphine in you right now, you’d have a hard time anyway.”

  “W’ere my?” Mike asked then worked his jaw. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in a… special hospital in Virginia,” the doctor said. “And… we don’t refer to our patients by name. You’re Patient 1357. Sorry.”

  “S’okay,” Mike replied. “CIA?”

  “Somewhat, but primarily military, sort of,” the doctor said, smiling in a way that cut off that avenue of conversation. “I’m Dr. Quinn.” She looked at him for a moment and nodded. “Go ahead and get it out of your system, otherwise you’ll be bothered until you do.”

  “Medicine woman?” Mike said, trying to grin.

  “See, feel better?” the doctor said. “No relation. I’ll send the nurse back in to take care of your needs. If the pain gets particularly bad, ring for the nurse and we’ll make an adjustment. Let me be clear: Pain is not weakness leaving the body. You can play that game when you’re operational, but when you’re recovering, high-order pain reduces your ability to heal. We want to keep the pain down. Don’t be a hero. If you’re in a lot of pain, tell us. If you move and it hurts like hell and won’t go away, tell us.”

  “Got it,” Mike said. “I take it I’m going to live?”

  “You’re going to live,” the doctor said, nodding. “T
here was some infection, but we got that under control days ago. You’ve been unconscious for nearly two weeks. Not in a coma, just unconscious. Not abnormal with injuries as severe as yours. But you’re well on your way to recovery, now.”

  “Thanks,” Mike said, working his head. His neck seemed, other than stiffness, to be the only thing that didn’t hurt.

  “You’re welcome,” Dr. Quinn said. “I spent nearly ten hours with my hands in various bits of you. I’m glad to see it was worth it.”

  The biggest problem was the tedium. In a civilian hospital, he’d probably have been discharged after a few days to a week, basically when the IV came out, which was three days after he woke up. Since this place was “sort of military,” and he had nobody to help him at home, he had to stay. He watched TV and caught some of the replays of the return home of the girls. The government, thank God, had let them get together with their parents before the news media got a crack. President Cliff had waited until the day after the homecoming to go visit, and hadn’t talked to the media on the way in or out, just turned up, spent some time and left. No grandstanding, no politicking. The scene of the girls getting off the plane in Dix was part of Fox’s lead-in. Charlie Three had, apparently, been their escorts back and for some reason the chief had one of the girls stuck on his back like a limpet. That was a major shot in the lead in.