Taking Fire

by Radclyffe

  She’d been in the field twice before as a disaster relief coordinator—once after the hurricanes that devastated Haiti and again following the massive flooding in the central United States—but she’d never been this far from the life she had known in miles or in experience. She could barely remember what it was like to sleep in a bed, to wake to hot showers and brewed coffee, and not to be cut off from the rest of the world for long stretches of time. The constant connectedness of the electronic world was a memory. Here she was as detached from her past life as she could possibly be, and yet she had never felt more herself. Her needs, her goals, her pleasures had been stripped down to the core. Out here what she did mattered, her life had meaning. She made a difference every time she fed a child or gave a bag of seed to a farmer or a loaf of bread to a tribesman. Her work wasn’t done, and if she left before it was, she feared she’d be haunted by the faces of those she’d failed to help.

  Rachel sank onto the edge of her cot and, resting her elbows on her knees, buried her face in her hands. She had promised not to leave. What would she do in ten hours when the helicopter arrived for her? None of this made sense. If she thought her father would be more forthcoming, she’d call him back, but she knew him. He’d said all he was going to say and expected her to obey him. Rachel sighed, wanting to pace, furious at her father for leaving her in the dark. He probably never even considered how his authoritative bearing affected her. He was used to everyone in every sphere of his life doing as he wished without explanation. Even her mother rarely challenged his decisions or desires. Her older brother, groomed since childhood to follow in her father’s footsteps, had never seemed to mind. He’d finished law school and had already entered local politics. Rachel had been the only one who refused to follow his orders without question. She had been the only one to challenge his authority. When she’d been old enough, she’d demanded to choose her own path.

  “Bad news?” Amina whispered from the darkness.

  “I don’t know,” Rachel said, her father’s words echoing in her mind. Do not discuss this. Why? Did he think the doctors, the engineers, the teachers and epidemiologists and translators were spies? His fundamental distrust of everyone’s motives was fueled by a lifetime of immersion in politics and the manipulation and maneuvering that went with it. Even though she’d been only too happy to leave that world behind, she wasn’t foolish enough to discount her father’s warnings. He might be exaggerating the danger for some agenda of his own, but what if he wasn’t? She considered her words cautiously. “Have you heard any news about…anything affecting our security?”

  Amina pushed aside the light sheet that covered her and sat up. Now that Rachel’s eyes had adjusted, she could see the glint in Amina’s eyes and the faint glow of her caramel skin in the little bit of moonlight slanting through the folded-back flaps of the mesh screens. She centered herself in Amina’s steady, honest gaze and grew more certain of the rightness of what she was doing.

  “I have not heard anything,” Amina said, “but Dacar handles security and receives briefings by radio almost every day, I think. We only are informed about ordinary things—supplies and medical deliveries, when the trucks will arrive to transport patients, that sort of thing.”

  “No one has mentioned evacuation?”

  Across from her, Amina drew a sharp breath. “No. Not that I’ve been told. Is there something we should tell Dacar?”

  Amina didn’t ask what Rachel knew, only waited, not because she was passive or intimidated, but because she trusted Rachel to tell her what she could. Her trust in Rachel, in Rachel’s commitment to their mission they shared, meant more to Rachel than all the feigned interest or attention of Christie and the other women she’d been involved with.

  “I don’t know what’s happening—if anything at all is really happening,” Rachel said, “but I’ve been told we are to be evacuated. All of us. Something about a security issue, but I don’t have any details.”

  “But the patients. What of them? We are not scheduled to send anyone to meet the trucks for another two days. What of those who are not ambulatory?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe there are other plans to move them.”

  The patients, who usually numbered around twenty, were mostly children, pregnant women, and the elderly of both sexes. Their illnesses ranged from dehydration and malnutrition to febrile convulsions accompanying a measles infection. Rarely they’d see someone with a gunshot wound—a victim of a run-in with the al-Shabaab rebels who continued to wage their decades-long war to overthrow the African Union–backed government. The team from Doctors Without Borders had a rudimentary operating room for emergencies, but most of their efforts were focused on public health issues. The rest of the Red Cross members concentrated on long-term rehabilitation or relocation of the civilians who found their way to them in increasing numbers every day.

  “Then someone should have told us by now, no?” Amina’s voice vibrated with tension. “Should we talk to Maribel?”

  Rachel felt a breath of hope. Certainly Maribel Fleur, the head of the Doctors Without Borders team, would have been informed if evacuation was imminent, but there was no activity beyond the usual at the hospital. Everything at the camp seemed normal. If they were in danger, there was no sign of it. But she couldn’t afford to be wrong. The lives of her colleagues and those they had all come to help might be in danger if she kept silent. And if she didn’t, if she revealed what little she knew, perhaps she would endanger everyone even more. Waiting was not in her nature, but this time she’d have to.

  “The camp seems secure, and there’s nothing else we can do tonight. Let’s wait until morning.” She might have no choice but to wait, but she had a choice about going. When morning arrived and she made it clear she wasn’t leaving, she’d find out what was happening.

  Chapter Three

  Max entered the briefing room at HQ, a larger rectangular version of her sleeping quarters, and edged around the long table covered with maps and reports that took up most of the space. The windowless walls were lined with shelves holding field manuals and thick folders. Captain Inouye, an average-sized middle-aged guy with short sandy hair and a square boxer’s build, stood by a projection screen at the opposite end of the room. Dan Fox, a Black Hawk pilot she’d flown with a number of times before, slumped in his flight jacket on one side of the table next to his wingman, Ariel Jordan, a young African American with sleek dark hair long on the sides and gathered at her nape into a short tail. The bird’s crew chief, Ollie Rampart, a big blond Iowa farm boy who spoke slow and moved fast in a firefight, and several junior officers from Inouye’s support staff made up the rest of the group.

  “Commander de Milles,” Captain Inouye said by way of greeting when she walked in.

  “Sir.” Max saluted.

  “Have a seat, everyone, please.” Inouye turned to the screen and someone dimmed the lights.

  Max sat opposite Fox and regarded the screen where an ensign projected a map of the Horn of Africa, showing Djibouti, Somalia, Kenya, and the adjoining countries.

  “We’re here,” Inouye said, unnecessarily tapping his finger on the city of Djibouti on the coast just north of Somalia. “We’re the biggest expeditionary force left out here with the exception of the troops at the forward bases in Afghanistan.” He slid his finger in a straight line down to Mogadishu in southern Somalia. “We’ve got a small advisory force here. Their main objective is to help coordinate the National Army’s response to the ongoing civil unrest and escalating terrorist activity in the area. I stress the word advisory.”

  Inouye’s sarcasm was subtle, but Max’s stomach roiled uneasily. She already didn’t like where this was going. Somalia was an unstable hellhole, and every US involvement in the last twenty years seemed to escalate from support to intervention, whether the politicians called the situation advisory or not. They’d lost troops there more than once when the line between support and combat had blurred. Birds had gone down and troops had died. This time around, the r
ebels were reported to have joined forces with al-Qaeda, which meant better arms, better intelligence, and better organization. All those things made for a stronger, more dangerous enemy. She kept her eyes to the front and her posture relaxed. Fear was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

  “Down here,” Inouye way went on, moving his finger south of Mogadishu and drawing a circle on the southernmost part of Somalia, “is the Juba jungle area. It’s believed the rebels are gathering in force in the jungle where their bases are hidden from aerial surveillance and from which they can launch surprise attacks into neighboring areas.” He tapped Kenya. “Most recently, a suicide attack at a Kenyan mall killed a number of civilians, including Americans.”

  Inouye managed to look commanding without being aloof. He always seemed to be holding a conversation rather than relaying orders, but Max wasn’t fooled. Whatever was coming, she’d have nothing to say about it. Her job was to follow orders, and she accepted that nothing they did would succeed if that simple premise was ignored. She had no doubt Inouye was leading up to a special mission of some kind, and the image of Manhattan that had been slowly gathering strength in her mind began to fade. She might still get home, but maybe she wouldn’t. The other side of a mission was always a question mark—a blank space in the future where it was best not to dwell. Her hands had been clenched, but now they relaxed. Her shoulders settled against the back of the seat. The familiar, even when it brought danger, was oddly comforting. All that mattered was that she do her job. The future was an indulgence not meant for warriors. Only the here and now mattered.

  “And right about here,” Inouye went on in his conversational tone, pushing a red pin into the map in the middle of the jungle, “is an International Red Cross emergency response station. A dozen people—six from the Mogadishu division of the International Red Crescent Society, all Somalis; three French medics from Doctors Without Borders; and an American and two Swiss, including their team coordinator, an engineer, and a water and irrigation specialist. About twenty-five clicks away”—he swept his hand in a crescent behind the red pin—“is the bulk of the rebel encampment. We estimate a force of several hundred.”

  Max heard the next words before he even said them. She figured everyone else in the room knew what was coming too. No one said anything. No one coughed or even moved.

  “We need to go get these folks and bring them out of there,” Captain Inouye said. “Simple extraction. In and out. We’re sending two birds—extraction at zero five hundred.” He paused and took a breath. “There’s one more thing.”

  The map disappeared and a head shot of a woman with a list of stats next to the photo took its place. Clear gray-green eyes, auburn shoulder-length hair with scattered gold highlights. A broad, sculpted mouth with the barest hint of a smile. Strong nose with a tiny bump on the bridge beneath a faint crescent scar. Tension in the long smooth jawline, a few frown lines creasing the otherwise creamy forehead. Serious, intense. Not beautiful. But striking. The text identified her as Rachel Winslow, age twenty-eight, nationality American, occupation Red Cross disaster response coordinator. Max focused on Rachel Winslow’s eyes. Her gaze was direct and confident, like the eyes of a woman who knew what she wanted.

  “She is your priority,” Inouye said. “You will transport out the others if possible, but in the advent of resistance or other unforeseen conditions forcing you to abort, you will do so only after she is secured. You do not leave without her. Any questions?”

  Max looked at Dan Fox. The Swampfox was known for getting in and out of hot zones when no one else would even chance touching down. This was right up his alley. He’d be team leader once they took to the air. He’d maintain contact with the mission controllers and relay situation updates as events played out, but when everything went sideways—and on a mission like this it was bound to, he’d determine their actions in the field. As if on cue, Fox said, “What can we expect from ground resistance?”

  “Short answer, we don’t know. The rebels move their weapons stores constantly. They might have surface-to-air missiles, they’ll certainly have small arms, but how much and where they might be, we don’t know. Surprise is on our side. Fast run in, quick extract, out again.”

  That approach had worked before. Small teams could penetrate even highly fortified areas more quickly than larger forces with their columns of support vehicles and heavy armaments. Six months before, an American diplomat and a Danish reporter had been extracted by a US Navy SEAL team from a city under siege in Kenya. No one asked Inouye why they were making this trip. It didn’t matter. Orders were orders.

  “You’ll travel light—essential personnel only—to leave room for the civilians and any patients who require transport.”

  Max wasn’t expendable—and tonight she’d be doing double duty as medic and combat troop. Every team carried a medic—either a regular soldier also trained as a medic or a corpsman or flight surgeon, like Max. Once the assignment of medics to combat missions had become routine, the mortality rates of even the worst injuries were drastically lowered, and now their presence was critical to troop morale. Troops faced the dangers of combat and the possibility of mortal injury with more confidence if they knew medical assistance was close at hand. If the troops believed they would survive if injured, their performance was sharper, mentally and physically. Max’s job was to keep them and their belief alive.

  “Who is the target?” Fox asked.

  “You know what I know,” Inouye said, waving toward the screen. He narrowed his eyes. “But someone pretty important wants her out of there.”

  “Shit,” someone muttered.

  “Handle with care,” Inouye said flatly. “Anyone else?”

  Max said, “I’ll need at least one more corpsman with that many civilians at risk.”

  Inouye nodded. “Griffin will be riding along. That it?”

  No one else had anything to say.

  “Very well then. Lieutenant Fox can take over from here.”

  The captain left and Swampfox walked to the map. He studied it for a moment and turned to the rest of them. “Flying time’s a little less than two hours, depending on headwinds. We’ll leave at zero three hundred. Anybody have anything to add?”

  No one did. Max left without speaking to the others and headed directly to the Black Hawk to check the medical supplies. This would be her one and only chance to be certain she had what she needed in the field. This bird was not a medevac helicopter like the ones she usually rode in when picking up wounded. This bird wasn’t marked with the identifiable red cross of a noncombatant helicopter, although in this war the neutrality of medics and their machines, on the ground or in the air, had been ignored to such an extent that many medevac birds now carried defensive armaments. Medics carried assault rifles and sidearms too in case they needed to defend themselves or their wounded. This bird wasn’t going to have the full complement of medical equipment, and she planned to supplement what was there with her individual first aid kit. She relied more on her IFAK when treating injured anyhow—she always knew what she had on hand and could find it in the dark. She was going through the IV bags, checking labels and drugs, when Grif spoke from behind her.

  “Thought I’d find you here.”

  Max glanced over her shoulder. “Guess you heard, huh?”

  He shrugged, his big oval face with its dusting of freckles calm as usual. “Got tapped for a ride along. Not much else to know. Sorry your nap got trashed.”

  “No problem. Too hot to sleep anyhow.” Max grinned, the adrenaline anticipation of the upcoming mission having burned off the lingering melancholy and dulling effects of the alcohol. Nothing put the brakes on guilt and self-recrimination like the imminent threat of mortal danger. “At least we’ll be cool up there.”

  “Need a hand?” Grif climbed into the belly of the Black Hawk.

  “Yeah, now that you’re here, can you check the med boxes for me and stock as much extra antibiotics and IV opiates as you can find room for in your IFAK? Field bandages
too.”

  “Sure thing. Expecting trouble?”

  Max smiled faintly. “Always.”

  When she was satisfied they had the bird set for their mission, she told Grif to go get some sleep and headed back to her CLU. CLUville was quiet, or as quiet as it ever got in the middle of the night. The streets were never empty, but most of the admin buildings were dark, the DFAC was dark—late-night suppertime having come and gone. Anyone who wanted food now would have to make do with whatever they could find in the vending machines scattered around the base until the dining facility opened again at zero five hundred. Just about when most troops were sitting down to eggs and bacon, she’d be dropping out of a Black Hawk onto the jungle floor.