“This one’s the homeowner, Tommie,” the cop said. “He’s still sucking wind and I’d really like him to keep on doing it.” As the other EMTs joined them and started working on Ross Washington carefully said, “Come on, S’leen, we need to give them some room,” and he gently moved her to the far side of the room. Another car slid to a stop outside and in moments a much older officer stepped through the door.
“Oy!” he said, looking at the nightmarish scene in the entrance foyer. “Looks like somebody fought a war in here.” Lieutenant Nolan Green studied the activity for a moment, then sadly ventured, “Ron, do we have any winners?” Then he realized that the light-colored female form Washington was comforting apparently wasn’t injured (despite the blood on her hands, arms, chest and thighs), wasn’t human—and wasn’t dressed. “Good grief, man! Where are your manners? Get something for that, uh, I mean for her to wear.”
While Ross had been lounging in a pair of black silk boxer shorts, S’leen had been relaxing the way she was most comfortable, clothed only in her fur. Human-style clothing was the farthest thing from her mind at this point, and everyone else had been too preoccupied to notice. Green brought it into perspective, saying, “There’s gonna be a lot more people here in a few minutes, and I think the, uh, young lady would be more, uh, comfortable with some clothes on.”
What he meant was that he would be more comfortable once the H’kaah was suitably dressed. While Green had long passed the age of raging hormones he still found naked, beautiful women, as well as unclothed, shapely H’kaah females, capable of spiking his blood pressure to dangerous levels.
Washington looked startled, then muttered something only S’leen could hear. She seemed reluctant to do his bidding but after a few moments of encouragement she stood (Green looked politely away) and hesitantly padded up the stairs, disappearing into a bedroom. Green just shook his gray-haired head, sighed and ambled over to where Washington was now standing and watching the EMTs work frantically on Ross’ limp form.
“Don’t get your hopes up, son,” Green cautioned, his expression grim. “In all my years of military and police work I’ve never seen someone shot up that badly live more than a handful of minutes.” The two officers watched in morbid fascination as the three EMTs moved like one complicated organism, seldom speaking in more than monosyllables as they danced over Ross’ body like a multi-part psychotic spider. Green slowly walked out onto the porch, unclipped his tiny cell phone from his duty belt, punched in a number, and after a momentary pause he spoke a few brief sentences into it before returning it to his belt. He walked back into the house, not really wanting to see what was being done to Ross in the name of trying to save him.
“LT,” Washington asked, “what in God’s name are those things?” He was referring to foot-long dull metallic rods the thickness of a pencil. The EMTs were carefully inserting them into several of the bullet holes in Ross’ body, then pushing a plunger in each rod’s cap. The surface of each rod then took on a blue sheen before it was abandoned, still buried deep in Ross’ flesh, as the EMTs turned their attention to other grim tasks.
“Y’know, I’d only heard about those,” Green said, genuine awe in his voice, “but I never dreamed I’d actually see them used, especially on a friend. They’re called Jacobs Rods.” When the young cop looked blankly at him Green explained, “They’re so new they’re still somewhat experimental. Insert one of the stainless steel shafts into a wound channel—spear, knife, bullet, many things can make a long hole—and once it’s inserted as far as possible you make it extrude a quick-acting mixture of thrombin and fibrinogen from hundreds of tiny holes in the shaft wall. The compounds form fibrin, which is what blood clots are made of, and this temporarily seals the major bleeding along the wound channel. The procedure doesn’t do anything about hydrostatic trauma from a high-speed bullet’s passing, but anything that can slow down the wound channel bleeding can buy the victim some much-needed time to get him into surgery.”
Washington looked at Green like he’d sprouted horns and a forked tail, and the older man added, “Hey, it’s worth a try! The military’s been working on the idea of ‘blood clot patches’ for decades. Surface-wound patches are fine for some kinds of wounds, but the Jacobs Rod delivery system is an idea that originated from several high-profile incidents where people got speared with various lethal objects—arrows, ski poles, javelins, spiked fence tops—and each time the victim survived to reach help because they left the objects imbedded in them to cut down on blood loss. Once in surgery the objects were removed under controlled conditions, and in every one of the cases the victims lived.”
One of the EMTs was getting angry as he talked over his radio. “I’m telling you they’ve got to bring the bird down closer to our 10-20!” The tiny speaker sputtered a few scratchy words, then the medic replied, desperation raising his voice to a near-shout, “The patient can’t be moved that far; he’s so full of Jacobs Rods he looks like a porcupine, and his vitals are dropping fast despite everything we’re doing! We’ve got to have a closer LZ and we’ve got to have it NOW!”
Green had become much more attentive when he realized the EMTs were having problems finding a suitable landing zone for the helicopter ambulance. He stepped up and told the medic, “Son, if you’ll let me talk to them I might be able to help.” The frustrated EMT tossed his radio to the police lieutenant.
“St. Johns, this is City PD Lieutenant Green. Can you get MedTrauma Air up on this frequency?” After a brief pause the radio squawked in receive mode, and he faintly heard the County EMS dispatcher contacting the helicopter on a companion frequency, the transmission signal piggybacking onto the main rescue frequency due to its high power. The radio went silent for a moment, then the squelch broke and a voice heavy with background noise blared from the tiny speaker.
“This is seven-alpha-whiskey MedTrauma Air to PD Lieutenant Green. Over.”
“Green here, MedTrauma Air. I understand you can’t find a suitable LZ within a stone’s throw of our 20. Over.”
“Roger that, Lieutenant. Although we’re still about seven minutes out, from what your EMS dispatch is telling us the closest we can sit the bird down is at least four miles from your 20. Over.”
“MedTrauma Air, before I put on a badge and started chasing bad guys I flew army medevac into some of the worst hell-holes in both the Middle East and Africa, and I’ve set bigger birds than yours down where they said it couldn’t be done. Let me put it this way: The wind is calm, and if we set up a four-corner LZ with an eighty-foot diameter, are you willing to at least give it a look?”
The radio was silent for a good ten seconds, the three EMTs frantically working on Ross exchanging shocked glances with the two police officers. Then the radio speaker squawked to life, the voice drawling, “Lieutenant, our rules specify helipad, four-lane highway, ball field or cow pasture, and we need a minimum of one hundred feet clearance.”
“Sir, where around here—?” Washington began, but was interrupted by the radio.
“Uh, where is this LZ you’re talking about, Lieutenant,” the pilot’s tinny voice asked, “and how do you plan to designate it?”
“Got ‘em!” Green snarled. “They’re genuine pros and they can’t resist the challenge.” To the others’ puzzled looks he only said, “Unless you’ve flown medevac you wouldn’t understand.” Then to the radio he carefully stated, “The LZ is right next to the victim’s house, and we’ll mark the four corners with our patrol cars’ blue lights and the red lights of the rescue unit. You’ll have to drop straight down into it from altitude; I’m personally familiar with the area and there are no, repeat no power lines nearby, but there are, repeat affirmative on large trees around the perimeter. However, as a former medevac pilot I guarantee you’ll have sufficient clearance if you come in exactly like I advise. As for where in town—Using the lighthouse on Anastasia Island as your reference, swing south from there about a mile and you’ll see our blue and red flashing lights. Give us five minutes to get i
nto position and then I’ll talk you down. Over.”
“You’re on, Lieutenant,” came the pilot’s voice. “See you on the ground in six minutes.”
“You heard the man,” Green stated as he bolted for the door. “Get our three patrol cars into the clearing next to the house and we’ll move the rescue truck into position last. DIEGO! BENSON! DAVIS!” Washington was one step behind the bellowing Green as the two men thundered out the front door. The other officers came running in response to Green’s call, and with the normally stoic Green barking orders like the younger officers had never imagined he could do they soon had the three patrol cars into position in the clearing next to the house. Green personally backed the bulky rescue truck down the drive, then jockeyed it fifteen feet off the pavement to complete the landing square.
Washington ran up to Green, saying, “LT! S-sir! It…it can’t be more than seventy feet across the narrowest part of the clearing! They can’t land that thing in here!”
Putting a calming hand on the frightened officer’s shoulder, Green said, “You’re pretty good at estimating distances at night, son, but you’re wrong about a good pilot being able to set his bird down under these conditions. I did it in tighter areas and with a bigger ship than he’s got.” The men heard the thuttering drone of the rescue helicopter, then saw its strobing navigation lights as it approached. “Right on time,” Green said, then keyed the hand-held EMS radio.
“MedTrauma Air, this is Lieutenant Green. We’re in position and I see you overhead. Take a good look around, then come join the party.”
Powerful floodlights on the hovering machine switched on, and the pilot slowly rotated in a full circle before carefully dropping the Bell 430 straight down into the middle of the tiny clearing. The helicopter hadn’t fully settled onto the ground before the huge side door folded out and two male paramedics jumped down and began running toward the house, carrying a folding stretcher between them. Green trotted up to the pilot’s door, which popped open upon his approach. Seven-alpha-whisky MedTrauma Air was piloted by a middle-age black woman whose face was split with a wide, white-toothed grin. Green matched her grin with one that threatened to shatter his own craggy, dusky Semitic features.
“You measure distance a little differently in the army, Lieutenant!” she shouted over the descending whine of the machine’s twin gas turbines and the insistent whistling of the four high-mounted, coasting rotor blades. “If there’s an eighty feet clearing anywhere around here, I’m a blonde-haired honkey!”
Green laughed, holding his hand up—but not too high!—in surrender. “Captain, my eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, but I’ve seen this big, beautiful bird fly numerous times, and I knew they wouldn’t let just any stick jockey take her up at night.” He grinned. “And I was right.” He held out a hand and the pilot took it in a firm yet feminine grasp.
Matching his grin, she said, “Captain Horne at your service, Lieutenant Green. If you buy the beer when we’re off-duty you can call me Shannel.”
Green said, “It’s a deal, Shannel, but for threading this particular needle I at least owe you dinner and a fine bottle of wine. You pick the restaurant, and please call me Nolan.” He glanced at the front of the house and added, “But now, Captain Horne, I think it’s time we both got back to work; your passenger’s a dear old friend of mine, and your boys are bringing him out now.”
The medevac paramedics and two of the local EMTs were hustling Ross on the stretcher across the manicured ground. Working quickly but carefully they secured him in the belly of the helicopter, and as Horne latched her door she called to the retreating Green, “I’ll call you at the PD station tomorrow!”
“Six to six, graveyard shift!” he yelled at her and saw her acknowledgment. He quickly ran clear of the rotor blades’ sudden frantic whirring as Horne throttled up the twin Allison gas turbine engines. Moments later, as the blades began taking heavy bites of the summer night’s warm air, she eased the sleek machine straight up and clear of the trees, then pointed it north before maxing the throttles for the brief trip to the awaiting trauma center.
As he and Washington walked back to the house the sergeant asked, “Why in hell are the trauma fly-boys still using a helicopter? We’ve had jumperdrive-powered aircraft for several years now, and they don’t have the limitations those old choppers do.”
Green laughed, saying, “It’s economics, Ron. MedTrauma Air had just taken delivery on that incredibly expensive bird when the jumperdrive technology became available. It quickly spread through the private, non-commercial sector, and of course the military made a big deal of it—they couldn’t afford not to! But the commercial aircraft world is governed by profits, and companies couldn’t afford to just throw away billions of dollars of perfectly good aircraft, even with the revaluation of the world’s currencies. That bird’s a complete flying emergency room, you know. Regardless of whether they convert existing medevac choppers to jumperdrive power, or build entirely new aircraft with all the required medical equipment, it takes mucho dinero to do the deed. I’m told it’ll be sometime next year, at the earliest, before they get a new jumperdrive-powered medevac unit.”
An unmarked sedan slipped through the open gate, hustled up the drive and parked in front of the porch. Out of it folded homicide detective Richard Crosby, who had come straight from home and was in rumpled civilian clothes, having gotten out of bed less than fifteen minutes earlier.
“Jesus, Lieutenant, was that MedTrauma Air?”
“Yeah, Dick, they’re trying to keep my old buddy Jack Ross alive.” Green frowned, stating, “At this point he’s literally flying on a wing and a prayer. Son, if Ross kicks off that’ll make number four in your report; you’ve already got three dirtbags cooling down inside the house.” As the three men climbed the steps he added, “You want to hear the crazy part—Ross’ alien companion chilled them after they finished using him for target practice.” As the investigator’s jaw dropped open in disbelief Green added, “Yeah, I’m talking about one of those sweet, fluffy H’kaah.”
“Don’t shit me, Nolan. I probably like them as much as anybody, but those creatures are nothing more than glorified rabbits! The only thing one of them is capable of killing is…is a carrot.”
Green shook his head. “I wouldn’t dream of telling you how to do your job, son, but the little fluff you’re talking about is a rabbit the same way you and I are monkeys—and my sources, as well as my own two eyes, tell me she’s fuckin’ magic with a pistol. All three of the dirtbags were headshot, most likely within the span of a few seconds, but it’s how they were headshot that makes the story even more interesting.” The three men entered the house and Crosby began examining the bodies of the intruders. The EMTs were busy cleaning up their work area.
“They haven’t been moved?” he asked, getting negative responses from everyone in the room.
S’leen called from the head of the stairs, “They are as they fell, after…after I shot them.” She quickly came down the stairs and Green was relieved to see that she had cleaned Ross’ blood from her honey-blonde fur and had put on a pair of dark blue shorts with a matching halter-top. Her long, lush brown hair was bound into a ponytail with a blue ribbon, and dainty blue sandals graced her large, non-human rabbit feet.
“You are Lieutenant Green?” she asked after approaching the older officer.
“Yes, S’leen,” he said kindly, then introduced her to detective Crosby. “I want you to tell him what you told Sergeant Washington, then you and I are going to take a ride to the trauma center in Jacksonville.” He saw her solemn face light up, and he suddenly felt a warm glow of pleasure. Oy, he thought, what Jack says is true. The H’kaah really do have an effect on us humans. No wonder he’s crazy about them, and this one in particular.
“Jack and I were dozing on the couch,” she explained, “and as we were getting ready to go up to bed the intrusion alarm went off. He ordered the security system to turn off the lights and unlock the front door, then we waited in the
dark for them.”
“You were armed?” Crosby asked.
“Yes. Jack had one of his big pistols and I had one similar to what I practice with on the firing range, and when the first one came through the door—” She paused for a moment to bring her sudden trembling under control. “The man stood there for a moment, then shined a light and pointed a gun at Jack!”
Green had to consciously fight his urge to wrap a comforting arm around the upset alien, but he managed to remain aloof and allow S’leen to continue her narrative.
“Jack yelled for the security system to switch on all the lights,” she continued, “then he shot twice at the man, and while I’m sure Jack hit him the man only grunted and staggered.” She paused again to reign in her trembling, then said, “That was when the other two came in and then they all s-shot—they all shot Jack.” She began crying, and both men instinctively responded to comfort her, escorting her to a nearby chair where she sat and got herself back under control.
After she honked her tiny pink-rimmed nose on Crosby’s quickly proffered handkerchief her voice took on a surprising firmness. “I was crouched by the side of this chair,” and she pointed to the side away from the front door, which was about twelve feet from where Ross was shot. “They saw me, then they made comments about wanting to…to fuck me—” she took a few deep breaths, “—a-and then eat me. By this time they had lowered their guns, apparently deciding that I wasn’t dangerous. That’s when I did what Jack and you police officers taught me; I took advantage of their mistake.” “And you shot all three men?” Crosby asked, his eyes wide with disbelief.
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