He pointed at a commo jack on the side of the bird above Nazdana’s legs. Between them, the girl was strapped to a stretcher, which in turn was latched into tie-downs recessed in the floor. Theresa had fitted Nazdana with an oxygen mask connected to an inboard tank. It decreased the girl’s wheezing, but she remained pale and sweaty.
“Nice.” Theresa’s voice came through the headphones clearly. “Think the gear’s interfering with the portable EKG monitor? It was reading the fetal heartbeat fine when I attached the belt in the women’s quarters, but now the readings are wacked.” She tapped the instrument in her hand. Wires from it went under the neck of Nazdana’s robes. “Maybe the belt I used slipped while the guys carried her.” She laid her free hand on the girl’s stomach, patting lightly, as if feeling for something.
Her fingers looked small and slender compared to his, or to the hands of the men he worked with. Even her touch looked lighter, gentler. He wished...he crushed that thought faster than a tick. With his teammates, he’d made a family, the closest he’d had in centuries. They welcomed him into their homes, trusted him and never asked questions he couldn’t answer. Pulling his weight as part of the team gave him a purpose every morning. Eventually, inevitably, he’d have to start over, but he wanted to hold on to this band of brothers for as long as possible. Although Theresa’s hand might look delicate, experience told him that a woman’s fingers had the strength to rip apart his security.
“The belt’s in place,” she said, “so what could—”
He’d never seen her eyebrows drawn so hard together over her nose.
“Holy crap.” Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “I get it. Two fetal heartbeats. That’s why the readings keep changing.”
It took a moment, but then he understood. Twins. Nazdana’s face blended with his memories of Zenobia’s dark hair and pain-hollowed eyes when she’d fought to deliver her twins, the babies he’d vowed to raise as his own. Despite the years, fear gored his gut as sharp and deep as a bull’s horn. He didn’t know this pregnant girl, but he couldn’t watch anyone suffer like that. Hand shaking at the edge of his vision, he thumbed on his mike.
Theresa bent closer to her patient, as if trying to hear over the rotors and engines.
“Captain,” he spoke into his mouthpiece. “Request you pick up the pace ASAP. Uhh—”
Nazdana’s eyes rolled until only the whites showed. One side of her mouth twitched repeatedly.
“Seizure.” Theresa scrambled in her ruck and pulled out a sealed bag of intravenous tubing and syringes. “Get her sleeve off.” Her command was loud enough to carry to him.
The girl’s body went rigid as Theresa ripped open an alcohol pad.
He sliced the bunched fabric away from Nazdana’s arm, but she didn’t move.
“Repeat request?” The pilot’s voice spoke in his earphones.
“Her mouth—put something in—next stage’s biting—” Theresa had the needle against Nazdana’s inner elbow.
“Twins,” he told the cockpit. Nothing except metal and useless plastic bags in reach. No wood or leather. “Hit some stick!” He stuck his left first finger in Nazdana’s mouth.
“Will comply,” the pilot replied.
Immediately the engine roared and the Black Hawk’s nose pitched forward, the massive power surge echoing the adrenaline and panic rising from his stomach as he watched Nazdana’s left arm flail. Theresa dodged, and the girl’s hand only clipped her shoulder, but she didn’t have the IV started yet. With his free hand, Wulf reached over Nazdana’s thrashing torso and pinned her upper arm. She had the strength of a writhing cobra, but Theresa was able to seize her forearm and insert a needle parallel to the girl’s skin. In his peripheral vision, he saw Kahananui kneel beside him to restrain Nazdana’s legs. He focused on the flash of red blood flowing backward into the catheter. Almost there. In seconds Theresa had the needle removed and tubing attached, as smoothly as if the girl wasn’t having an inflight seizure.
Then Nazdana clenched her teeth so hard on his finger, he closed his eyes to conceal the pain while he braced her tongue flat to keep her airway open. He couldn’t let Theresa notice, but damn, the girl could bite like Odin’s wolves.
He counted past one hundred before her jaw loosened and she collapsed into a semblance of regular body tension. Through slitted eyes he saw Theresa sag as if she’d let out a long-held breath, but if he released his, he might groan. His finger fucking hurt.
“Can someone radio to Caddie for operating room prep?” Theresa spoke into her mike. “Tell them we have an emergency C-section with possible eclampsia complications and potential multiple births en route. We need a full receiving team at the landing zone.”
After Theresa’s request went out over the air, Kahananui elbowed Wulf’s right side and slipped a clean degreasing rag under the edge of the stretcher. Now Wulf had to figure out how to retrieve his finger.
“What miracle drug was that?” The Hawaiian leaned toward Theresa, plopping his massive shoulder in front of Wulf and jostling him closer to Nazdana’s head. “I like to know about the good stuff in case we have to treat Afghans in the field.”
“Magnesium sulfate and hydralazine.” Voice strong and calm over the headset, Theresa sounded like she did this every day, not like delivering babies midflight was the scariest shit in the world. “The combo is a safe anticonvulsant and muscle relaxant for pregnant women. I found them in supply because they’re also hypertension drugs.”
They discussed side effects and dosages as if Kahananui played a television doctor, which allowed Wulf to slip his finger out of Nazdana’s mouth and wipe the pink froth off her chin. A flap of skin hung from his finger like a bloody lip, exposing nubs of bone where the girl’s teeth had dug the deepest. Blood dripped into his palm and between his fingers. It looked worse than it felt. Barely. He stuck his rag-wrapped hand into his pocket and prayed Theresa wouldn’t notice.
“She’s breathing on her own, good sign, but we need a CT scan to figure out if she’s in a coma or just knocked out by the drugs.”
Coma. Zenobia had slipped into that dark world after three days of bleeding and never emerged. Never opened her eyes or spoke to him or held the tiny boys during their brief hours. Theresa wouldn’t let that happen to Nazdana. She wouldn’t.
Theresa adjusted her patient’s oxygen mask and then carefully opened the girl’s mouth.
Wulf stiffened at the sight of Nazdana’s bloody teeth.
She used a tongue depressor to separate Nazdana’s jaws and examine her tongue. “She didn’t bite herself, so...” She pointed the red-stained stick at him. “Show me your finger.”
He shook his head. “She didn’t bite through.” Despite his finger itching like a dozen hairy caterpillars all circled the same spot, he couldn’t be sure the healing had finished.
The helicopter’s forward motion stopped. Over his headphones, the pilot and air traffic control rushed through landing protocols. A minute or two of obfuscation and he’d be clear.
“If she broke the skin, you could get an infection. You might need stitches.”
“She didn’t break the skin.” Please let that be the truth by now.
“Let me be the judge.” Theresa dropped the stick and reached for him. “Your left hand.”
If he satisfied her that nothing was the matter, this could end and she wouldn’t chase him down or demand follow-up. He had to show her, had to hope he’d given himself enough time.
With the bloody rag abandoned in his pocket, two red half-moons, one on top of his finger, one underneath, were the only signs of Nazdana’s bite. As he watched, the marks faded to pink and then disappeared.
Theresa raised her hand to grab his, but left the connection incomplete. She stared between his fingers and the blood-speckled tongue depressor lying on Nazdana. Her expression revealed confusion, but their wheels tou
ched ground before she could shape a question.
Thank Thor, her patient came first.
* * *
In the week since the hospital interpreter had rushed between him and Theresa at the flight line, Wulf had deliberately avoided the doctor. Kahananui had waited outside the operating room to report to the team about Nazdana’s successful delivery. Other team members popped in to visit the patients during the day, but Wulf timed his visits for after Theresa left. At nearly six pounds each, the twin boys could already wrap their walnut-size fists around his fingers. Last night, when he’d stroked one’s spiky black hair, identical to the downy heads of the babies he carried in his heart, envy had almost driven him from the room. He’d abandoned his mercenary life, surrounded himself with honorable men, made the right choices, but even an illiterate opium grower had something he never would. In the centuries since his brother and he had realized what their healing abilities had taken away and he’d lost Zenobia, he’d avoided children. Now the curiosity of Mir, the kid who was into everything, and the near-adoption of the twins by his team had snuck past his walls and knocked, no, pounded, on a hollow space under his ribs.
Part of him had a crazy urge to fill the void with more than memories. The rest of him panicked and gulped dinner if Theresa entered the chow hall. Left the gym if he saw her ponytail on the treadmill. Did an about-face if he heard her laugh. Ran from the opportunity to screw up his life. Because he was the lonely horndog that Kahananui often accused him of being, vigilance was becoming a full-time occupation.
Today he made it to the team’s ready room without seeing Theresa, with space to wonder why Deavers had beeped him during lunch. His commander had a guest Wulf recognized, a Night Stalker named Morgan from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. He must have been visiting from Bagram Airfield in Kabul, because Wulf didn’t recall an air-mobile mission on tap.
The helicopter pilot’s mouth bisected his face like a slash. “Chief flew two medevac tours in Vietnam.” The aviator continued speaking as if he hadn’t noticed Wulf. “Thirty years flying the governor for State Patrol, wildfires with the Guard, two tours in Iraq, before he volunteered for this sandbox. He taught me more about flying in two days than I got in six weeks at Rucker.” He thrust his head and shoulders forward. “Chief John Mitchell did not shoot his own leg cleaning his weapon!”
Wulf had met Chief Mitchell enough times to agree with the captain’s assessment. Chief had been the guy you put in charge of loading the lifeboats, the guy played by Clint Eastwood. Not a Snuffy who made a mistake like shooting himself in the femoral.
After introducing Wulf to the pilot, Deavers launched into an explanation. “This month Morgan and Chief Mitchell returned shipping containers to Bagram from outposts here—” Deavers tapped their wall map, “—here and here. Should’ve been empties swapped for resupply, but they registered six hundred kilos over listed empty weight.” His commander’s coiled stillness broadcast clearly. Higher headquarters assigned ninety-five percent of the team’s missions: hostage extraction, training ops with the Afghans, target surveillance or neutralization. Five percent of the time the team set its own agenda, unrecorded missions of their choosing. Deavers especially liked to make the world right when he had the chance to go off the record.
Now Morgan had brought them a five-percenter.
“Chief didn’t like jerks screwing with our loads. He wanted to know.” Eyes red-rimmed, the pilot stared at Wulf. “That last day, we landed the conex hard. Busted a corner. On purpose.” He covered his face with his hands and rocked forward, elbows on his knees. “I walked off—my son was suspended and my wife needed to talk— God, I should’ve stayed.”
Deavers looked from the other captain to Wulf. “Chief Mitchell was checking the container the last time he was seen alive. Morgan noticed the flight-line manager running over.”
The hairs on Wulf’s neck turned into bristles. “What’d the guy say happened?”
“Never did.” The pilot spoke to the floor. “He left that night. Black and Swan charter. Hour after I found Chief in his hut. By the time I went hunting for him, he was wheels up. B & S claimed he had a family emergency.”
“Bag of Shit.” One of many names for the contractors who pretended to be above the law.
Deavers nodded. “Morgan wants us to ride shotgun on container deliveries and pickups to figure out what’s inside. Nothing written. No records.”
Ride-alongs sounded like a perfect excuse to get out of Caddie and away from the soft-skinned, sweet-smelling problem that had him running laps every night at oh-dark-thirty, hunting for exhaustion.
“The team will open the can, get our answers and close it up, good as new,” Deavers promised the pilot.
“Or we could open it and blow it.” Wulf made his own suggestion. Cruz and Kahananui enjoyed testing explosives. “Fake an RPG hit.”
“Whoa—” The pilot’s voice cracked, and he swallowed. “Not my definition of fun. No rocket-propelled grenades near my Black Hawk. No exploding sling loads.”
“The Big Kahuna’s the best. He’d direct the blast away from your bird. You probably wouldn’t even notice.”
“Negative.” Morgan’s forehead rested on one fist with his elbow braced on his leg, but Wulf could see that he was blinking rapidly.
“We could be jack-in-the-box and pop out to surprise whoever takes delivery,” Deavers offered. His voice sounded slow, like he was planning, but his slightly tilted head and his single raised eyebrow flashed a different message to Wulf, a plea to fill the room with talk until Morgan had recovered. Let the man get himself together, Deavers seemed to signal.
“Negative on that idea, sir.” Wulf nodded once to acknowledge his understanding. “You ever spent time locked in a shipping container? Hotter than peppers on a Punjabi grill. Your Minnesota roots can’t take it.”
They traded meaningless barbs until Captain Morgan finally spoke through hard-pressed lips. “Thanks. I knew you’d come through for me. For Chief. Thanks.”
“Give us the call, and we’re ready to go.” Wulf put a hand on the pilot’s shoulder and offered him a bottle of water. “We’ve got your back. We’ll find out whatever Chief knew.”
Ten minutes with barely a thought of Theresa. This mission would be good for him.
Chapter Five
Theresa closed the postal trailer’s door with her hip, the sun-parched afternoon making her squint after the dim interior. The two packages in her arms were the first good omens since she’d realized Sergeant Wardsen must be avoiding her.
“Captain Chiesa!”
She couldn’t mistake that voice after listening to it through the curtain and on the ride where they’d struggled to help Nazdana. Before she turned, she knew Sergeant Wardsen would be there, his warm melody of words able to comfort in any language. He could probably soothe the damn dust if he spoke to it.
Three feet away, he stood like a granite monument, one hand on the pull door that covered the letter slot. Her exit had caught him in the middle of depositing a handful of letters.
If she hadn’t been holding the boxes, she could’ve touched his cheek. Clean-shaven, he was as delicious as a recruiting ad.
“How are Nazdana and the little guys?” Below his reflective sunglasses, he grinned like everyone in camp did when they asked about Caddie’s favorite guests.
“Great. Eating lots.” She wanted to keep him there, talking, even if only about this safe topic. “Someone made two cradles and the nurses are stitching quilts out of the camouflage patterns of all the NATO uniforms.” Refusing to obey her brain’s warning to keep her distance, her feet carried her down the steps. “They’ll be ready to go home after this weekend.”
“We’ll be on a mission. Can they stay until Tuesday?”
“Sure.” Then we’ll have to see each other again. “Extra days can’t hurt.” Her g
oal wasn’t to stand here and stare at him, especially when she couldn’t see his eyes through the lenses, so she asked, “Does your team know any other women who need maternity care?”
“Planning to open a women’s clinic?” His lips twitched at one corner of his mouth. “What’s the regulation authorizing that, ma’am?”
“No idea.” She squeezed her packages tighter, unsure how to present her half-formed plan to Colonel Loughrey. The sixteen hours it had taken her to track down a supply of vitamins with extra folate deliverable to Caddie hadn’t left much time to refine her idea of mobile prenatal visits.
“Kidding.” He caught the smaller box as it slipped across the larger one’s top. “It’s a great idea, and we’ll find you someone.” He gestured to the bigger package she held. “I’ll trade you.”
Her mother could fit an entire vacation wardrobe and dozens of cookies into a box the size of a file drawer, but it was heavy enough to make her arms ache. Asking him to carry it would be wimpy, but he’d offered. She wouldn’t lose her atta-girl credentials if she accepted his help as far as her hut.
He palmed the carton as if it were a basketball and handed her the smaller one to tuck at her hip. “So, what exciting contraband am I hauling? It’s not heavy enough to be beer.”
“Shoes.” She looked at her tan suede boots. “I need civvies for leave next week.”
“I’m carrying women’s shoes? Spiky things?” He shortened his stride to stay next to her.
“Probably.” She had no idea what her mother had sent, but smart money would be on black kitten heels. Refusing her stepfather’s dubious cash was one thing, but Theresa had long ago resigned herself to her mother’s extravagance. Buying clothes for her only child was an expression of love, as well as an attempt to make up for the losses of Theresa’s early years. Despite Carl’s jokes about his wife’s skill at money laundering whenever she went to the mall, Theresa knew everything in the box had been selected and mailed with her mother’s love.
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