Grant and Wilson reacted at last, but too damned slowly. Damián rushed toward them, trying to push them toward the other end of the rooftop. At the last moment, Damián turned to check on Sergeant Miller, who was right behind him. The blast deafened his ears, the percussion of the explosion knocking him backwards, hard against someone. They went sprawling across the roof.
Mother fucking insurgents.
It felt like a fucking wall had fallen on top of his chest. His foot was on fire. He opened his eyes and saw Sarge’s head, or what was left of it, lying on his chest. The man’s bloody brains showed through the hole in his head. Sarge’s body lay prone across Damián’s chest and abdomen. The pool of blood forming on Damián’s chest felt warm. What the fuck?
A roaring in his ears merged with high-pitched screams. Then he realized the screams were his.
“Madre de Dios! No! Sarge, don’t you fucking die!”
He knew Sarge was gone, but kept yelling at him as if he could bring him back by the sheer volume of his voice. He looked up and watched as Grant and Wilson, on either side of him, lifted Sarge off him. Damián turned his head away, watching in horrific fascination as Sarge’s blood ran down the rooftop toward Damián’s feet, where it mingled with another pool of blood. The one forming around his own mangled foot.
What the fuck?
“Corpsman up!” Wilson called.
How could that be his blood? He didn’t feel the burning pain in his foot anymore. As he stared, the image blurred. A wave of dizziness caused his stomach to lurch. He was going to lose his MRE. His head slumped back against the warm concrete.
Serious fucked up shit. Was he going to die here? Dreams of returning home and finding Savannah faded. The sun disappeared into a cloud. Sudden blackness. Damián closed his eyes.
Such a fucking wasted life.
* * *
“Corpsman up!”
Shit. Marc heard the call come from the rooftop of the building across the street. Holed up in the make-shift command headquarters, he grabbed for his pack and a litter.
“We’ve got your back, Doc,” Master Sergeant Montague yelled, then he and several other grunts moved into position near the doorway and windows with their rifles leveled at the buildings where they suspected insurgents were still hidden. Marc ran out of the abandoned house toward the one across the street where the recon team had been staked out for the last couple of hours.
The rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire echoed behind him and from a nearby building as he zigzagged across the street. He dodged the bullets stirring up sand and dust around him. Lucky for him, the stairway to the roof on the outside of the building had a high cement wall he could crouch behind as he made his way upstairs.
When he reached the roof, he stuck his head around the corner to assess the situation. Two Marines down, two upright. Marc stayed low as he crossed the roof and hunkered down beside the one with the worst injuries. A quick check of Sergeant Miller’s nonexistent pulse and the damage to his head told him he needed to focus his efforts on the other one.
Two grunts crouched nearby over this one. Orlando. Fuck, no! Grant had a white-knuckled grip on the wounded man’s hand. His buddy’s boot—and foot—had been blown clean off, leaving a bloody stump of bone, tissue, and an exposed artery. Losing blood fast.
Shit. Don’t you die on me, Orlando!
“Orlando! It’s Doc. You’re going to be fine.”
The man opened his pain-filled eyes, clenching his teeth to keep from screaming. Sweat broke out on the younger man’s forehead. Marc put on his gloves and pulled a tourniquet from the bag. Orlando groaned and tried to raise his head to see the damage.
“Keep his head down!” Marc ordered Wilson and Grant. The last thing he needed was for Orlando to see his foot and sink into shock.
Even though Marc was seven years older than Orlando, he’d connected with the man during training at Pendleton. Orlando had been so damned serious. Marc had loved finding ways to get him to lighten up. The kid also had a huge chip on his shoulder back then. He’d acted like the whole damned world was against him. It had taken the Corps a while to knock that shit out of him, but you couldn’t ask for a better Marine. Marc had been impressed by the strength and courage the man had shown. He was one of the best sharpshooters in the unit, which is probably what landed him on this rooftop in the first place.
Marc applied the tourniquet and bandaged the bloody stump.
“Grenade came over the wall,” said Wilson, holding the kid’s forehead. “Orlando and Miller saw it first. Orlando shoved Grant and me away. Sergeant Miller took the brunt of the explosion.” Wilson looked over at Miller and closed his eyes tightly.
The sergeant was the first fatality the recon unit had suffered. Marc had learned to stay numb most of the time. Since the scene with Gino over Melissa, he’d never been one to show much emotion, so it hadn’t been hard to do. He wouldn’t even try to process the loss of Miller’s life for a while.
Focus on the living.
Marc checked Orlando for other wounds, but didn’t find any visible ones, not that this one wasn’t serious enough.
“How bad, Doc?” Orlando spoke through gritted teeth, his lips whitened by the effort not to scream. Despite the kid’s bravado, he looked scared shitless. The young man was about to get a lesson in maturity no one should have to learn. If it didn’t kill him first.
Marc tried to remain calm, even though his heart beat so fast he was sure Orlando could hear it. He doubted the surgeons would be able to reattach the foot, but as his corpsman, he’d do his damnedest to keep him alive until they could take over. If Orlando was lucky, the amputation site would be low enough not to cause too many problems later on.
“Your foot’s pretty banged up. I’m going to hook you up to an IV and we’ll have you medevacked out of here in no time.”
“Will I lose it?” he whispered, as if afraid to put the idea out there too loud for the universe to act on.
“The surgeons will do all they can.” He needed to get Orlando’s focus on something more positive. “You’ll probably be going home soon.”
Orlando tensed in pain, gripping Grant’s hand even tighter, and then his body slumped against the roof, his head lolling to the side. The kid’s body began to shake. Shock. Marc inserted the IV needle and adjusted the drip then heard the scream of an incoming mortar round.
Instinctively, he shielded Orlando’s chest and head with his own body, spreading his arms out to cover as much of his wounded buddy as he could. The blast hit the wall beside him, taking out a portion of the cement structure. Marc felt chunks of cement slam into his back and side, stinging the skin where he didn’t have protection from the SAPI plate.
Fucking sitting ducks.
Marc shouted, “Let’s get him off the roof!”
“Sure thing, Doc!”
“Staging area’s across the street. I’ll send up a 9 Line request.” Marc knew it could take up to ten minutes for the medevac chopper to arrive. “Then we’ll come back for Miller.”
As Marc made the call, he gasped for air. What the hell? He watched the two grunts load Orlando onto a litter, pick it up, and start for the stairs. Marc rose to his feet to follow, but felt a crushing weight against his side and chest. He tried to catch his breath, but couldn’t fill his lungs with air.
He managed to fight the pain and take a few steps before his vision blurred. The pain in his side was so fucking sharp, it inhibited his ability to breath. Gasping for air, he watched the rooftop stairway swim before his eyes. He pitched forward into blackness.
* * *
Adam wondered why his last tour had to be so fucked up. If he could get his units out of Fallujah without major casualties, it would be a miracle. He hoped the RPG he’d heard explode hadn’t resulted in serious injuries, but knew Doc would take care of his troops. He always did.
While the Coalition Forces still seemed to have the upper hand, Adam knew there were many more bloody days ahead before they’d be able to claim the Sunni str
onghold. He just wanted to finish up this deployment and get everyone home in one piece. He was getting too old for this shit. He’d retire as soon as he got stateside again.
The scream of a mortar round brought him back to full alert. The blast looked like it had hit the rooftop where his recon team was. Fuck. He needed to get up there. He turned over operations here and had managed to get across the street, hunkered down in the stairwell, when he looked up and saw Wilson and Grant rushing down the stairs bearing a litter.
Adam stood and provided cover for them. Damn. Who’d gotten hit? He and the remaining troops inside the staging building continued to pepper the area with gunfire as Adam followed the grunts with the litter back across the street. Once inside, he looked down at the unconscious Orlando.
“Doc radioed for the 9 Line Medevac, sir,” Grant reported.
Good. He needed to get the kid out of here. Adam looked through the doorway, expecting to see the corpsman. And where was Miller? No one else came down the stairway.
“Where’s Doc? Miller?” Adam barked.
“I thought Doc was right behind us. Maybe he stayed with Miller, sir,” Wilson said as he covered Orlando with a blanket. “Miller didn’t make it.”
God fucking damn. He’d lost another man. “I’m going back over there.” Adam put his helmet on and adjusted the strap.
“Right behind you, sir,” Grant said.
“Grab a litter.” Doc’s job was to save lives. He’d be upset about losing Miller, even if he couldn’t have prevented it. Although Doc had been trained to use his rifle, Adam knew the corpsman wouldn’t be thinking about protecting himself right now. No Marine left behind.
They headed across the street, insurgent gunfire spraying bullets at them as they ran. At the top of the stairs, they turned the corner and found Doc lying face down. A few feet away lay Miller, his head blown apart.
Fuck. No hope for Miller.
Doc’s right side was covered in blood that had soaked into his camo and had begun to pool by his outstretched arm. His medical bag lay beside him. Several pieces of shrapnel had embedded themselves deep in the back of the SAPI plate, but some must have entered the side of his torso where the plate didn’t provide protection.
Doc gasped for air.
“Get the scissors out of his bag!” Adam screamed, then surveyed the damage.
God damn it! A piece of cement steel protruded from the side of the corpsman’s chest, under his arm. While Grant rooted in the bag, Adam reached out and placed his hand on Doc’s shoulder. “Hang on, Doc. We’ll have you out of here in no time.” Adam accepted the scissors from Grant and cut the camo away, being careful not to jar the projectile.
No telling how much of it was buried in his chest or which organs had been damaged. A number of small pieces of shrapnel were embedded in his skin, as well. Pressing the walkie-talkie button on his shoulder device, Adam shouted, “Wilson! Check the ETA for the 9 Line. Doc’s in bad shape.” Adam didn’t know if Doc had even gotten off the request before he’d collapsed.
He took a bandage from the bag and cut it to the center, then pressed it on the skin against the wound around the metal, sealing the wound as best he could without shifting the metal protruding from his side. He hoped.
The walkie-talkie squawked. “Three to four mikes,” Wilson reported.
“Doc! Stay with me!” He hoped the man had those three or four minutes. Blood trickled from the corpsman’s mouth. The steel projectile must have punctured his lungs. Adam felt so fucking helpless.
To his surprise, Doc gave them a thumbs-up sign. He’d thought the man had been unconscious. Then Adam heard the Blackhawk approaching. Thank you, Jesus.
Small-arms fire reached a fever pitch around them. His other units must have located the insurgent holdout. He hoped there were no more casualties. This had been the worst battle his units had fought this entire deployment.
Another clusterfuck. He’d almost gotten them all home safely this time.
Wilson arrived a few moments later leading the medevac team. Adam backed away from Doc’s side as the medical team threw the litter and supplies down, unloading the instruments they’d need to save Doc’s life. Please, God, don’t let me lose D’Alessio.
His mind flashed to Kandahar. Another D’Alessio. Fucking Christ, he needed to check and see if there was a connection. He’d gotten so used to calling this one Doc, he hadn’t thought about the two men having the same surname. Maybe his mind hadn’t wanted him to process the name and be reminded of one of the two men he’d lost in that ambush.
Shit. Was Doc related to Gino D’Alessio?
Adam watched helplessly as they listened for lung sounds in Doc’s chest. “Pneumothorax, maybe even hemo-pneumo. Let’s just load and go!”
As the medivac team prepared Doc for transport, Adam motioned for Wilson and Grant to help him load Miller’s body. They carried the litters down the stairs, Doc’s going down first. Four other grunts brought Orlando’s litter from the staging area. The kid lay unconscious. Thank God for small favors. At least he hoped he was just unconscious.
At the chopper, Adam watched helplessly as two of his men were loaded, to be taken to the Combat Support Hospital. He surrendered Miller’s body to them, as well, for transport to the Marine morgue at the same location. Another angel.
God, don’t let me lose any more of my troops.
While You’re at it, get the rest of my units the fuck out of Fallujah in one piece.
* * *
“Orlando?”
Marc’s throat was raw. His chest burned as if a fire-breathing dragon had taken up residence there. The nurse looked down at him with a puzzled look on her face.
“What, sweetie?”
“How’s Orlando?”
“I don’t think we have a patient here by that name, but I’ll check when I get back to the desk. Maybe he’s already been taken to Ramstein.” She put the blood-pressure cuff around his arm and inflated it. When he opened his mouth to ask another question, she admonished, “Don’t talk.” After she recorded the information in the chart, she said, “You’ll probably be heading to Germany yourself in a few days. We’re just waiting for your lung to re-expand fully before we fly you out.”
Pneumothorax. That explained why his chest hurt so badly. He didn’t remember anything other than trying to stabilize Orlando. The nurse stuck a thermometer under his tongue. Marc closed his eyes. Keeping them open required more energy than he could muster. Why was he so damned tired?
“Your master sergeant came by to visit earlier. I told him you’d probably be up to having visitors tomorrow.”
Marc didn’t even know where “here” was. Must be the CSH in Fallujah, if Montague was here. His eyelids grew so heavy he didn’t try to open them again, even after she pulled the thermometer out of his mouth.
“Temperatures up a little.” The nurse patted his forearm. “That’s right, sweetie. You just get some sleep and let your body heal. A hemo-pneumothorax isn’t anything to mess with.”
Hemo, too? Blood in the lungs. Shit.
When he awoke again, the room was dark. Marc knew he wasn’t alone, but didn’t know who sat in the corner until he heard him speak.
“’Bout time you woke up.” Master Sergeant Montague moved his chair closer to Marc’s bed.
Marc smiled. “Getting lazy in my old age, sir.” His voice sounded raspy and weak.
Montague grunted. “Don’t tell me about old.” Marc looked at his top sergeant and thought he did look older than the last time he’d seen him. Dark circles under the man’s eyes told of sleepless nights. Worry. Or worse.
Miller. Oh, Dio, they’d lost Miller. But what about Orlando? The others? Had anyone else died? Is that why the master sergeant had come to visit him personally? Marc couldn’t form the words to ask.
“How you feeling?”
Marc shrugged. His chest didn’t burn as much as it had earlier.
“You’ve been out of it a couple days. Quite a fever. They said they’ll keep yo
u here until they know there’s no more infection.”
Marc nodded. Even that small exertion made him tired. He tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t quite fill his lungs. He closed his eyes and took several shallow breaths, fighting the panic over feeling smothered all the time. Why didn’t the Top tell him about Orlando? Had the kid made it?
Christ, he had to know. “How’s Orlando?” he whispered.
Montague ran a hand through his hair. Marc’s heart hammered against his chest, reigniting the fire. Oh, Dio, no! He took several more shallow breaths, trying to regulate his heartbeat and relieve the stress on his heart and lungs. Was he ready to hear the words he’d been dreading since he’d come to?
“I should have said something sooner. I’m sorry. They couldn’t reattach the foot.”
The breath Marc had held whooshed out, releasing some of the burning from his chest. “He’s alive?”
Montague’s eyes opened wider in surprise. “Oh, hell, yeah, Doc. Shit. I thought you knew that much.”
As best he could, Marc breathed a sigh of relief.
“You did great work. You always do. Grant told me you shielded Orlando and took the brunt of the mortar attack yourself.”
Marc looked away. If someone had told him a year ago he’d have been prepared to lay down his life for another, he’d have said they were crazy. But for the first time in his life, with this small band of Marines, he felt a part of something so much bigger than himself. A noble cause. A desire to think of his buddies before himself.
The master sergeant looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know why I didn’t make the connection sooner. You’re Gino D’Alessio’s brother.”
“Yeah.” Marc had been wanting to ask Montague about him since before they deployed, but there never had been an opportunity.
Fire burned the backs of Marc’s eyes. He closed the lids before he embarrassed himself. He’d always wanted to know the details about how Gino had died. Now, he needed to know how he’d lived and fought. Had he wanted to serve?
He opened his eyes and stared at Montague a long moment. “Sir, was Gino a good Marine?”
Masters at Arms Page 13
