by Sating, Paul
A stethoscope hung in her hand, which she then wrapped around her neck as if it was the one thing preventing her from choking us with it. "What is the meaning of this? What are you doing in my clinic?"
My mouth dropped open, and I glanced at our sergeant. For a brief second, he looked too confused to speak. Her words held none of the dialect of the Iraqis. She spoke perfect English. She wasn't from this part of the world, but looked fierce enough to defend it as if it was her own.
"My apologies, ma'am," Sergeant Smith stepped forward. A small girl with big, round eyes whimpered and slid behind a woman who wrapped a protective arm around her. "We're just doing a routine patrol and noticed this crowd gathered here. We wanted to make sure everything was on the up and up."
The woman stepped forward to meet him. "This 'crowd' are civilians. Are these people not free to gather where they want?"
Smith looked at the interpreter as if the woman wasn't speaking his own language. That didn't slow her down.
She stabbed a finger at Smith like she fully intended on poking his eye out. "Because let me tell you, they are free to do what they want, regardless of what this place is and what it may not be in your own perspective."
Our sergeant grimaced, his hands flailing at his sides. "Ma'am, I didn't mean to upset you. We're on the same team here. Just trying to ensure the safety of the neighborhood. We did not mean to intrude on your work."
She crossed her arms. Smith was in trouble. "Yet that's exactly what you did. You know, I'm sick and tired of you Americans and Russians constantly invading my clinic. This is a place to treat people and help them recover, not for insecure military boys to attempt to get one over on the other."
"We're not Russians," Smith said as if he needed to avoid the tension with a response, useless as it was.
"Of course you're not," the woman screeched. "I'm an American and know damn well who you are. Just take word back to your commander that this clinic is off–limits. I don't want you here. I don't want the Russians here. The only thing I want is to be allowed to treat these poor people you keep making victims of. Leave us alone!"
Though I had only recently lowered my hands, I raised them to shoulder height again as I stepped forward. The words were falling out of my mouth before I thought through what I was going to say. "Aren't you," I paused to look around at the Iraqi women who were watching the conversation closely. I knew they wouldn't be able to understand me, most likely, so I figured I could check in with the American civilian. "Aren't you worried about your safety?"
Her folded arms tightened. Now, I was in trouble. "The only people who are a threat to my safety are soldiers like you. And you're also a hindrance to me being able to provide care for people who desperately need it. There aren't very many doctors left in Baghdad thanks to you either scaring them off or forcing them into service to care for the soldiers so they can keep killing the other soldiers."
This woman was tough as nails. She made a shooing gesture with her hands. "Out! All of you, get out!"
The children smiled at the woman's outrage. She strode toward us, still shooing, one intentional step at a time.
"Out! Out!"
"Out! Out! Out!" a boy of ten mimicked her. Two girls, maybe his younger sisters, watched until joy overtook them and they copied their brother copying the doctor.
"Back," Sergeant Smith said, his voice edged with anxiety. "Back outside now."
We did so without question, stepping into the heat of the day again, beyond the shadow of the building and the reach of this irate American.
In the open street on the outskirts of Baghdad, I felt safer than anywhere near her.
10 - Baghdad
"Let's go, girls," Sergeant Rogers shouted to the twenty–man strong platoon itching to hit the streets of Khadra once more.
"Arrogant ass," I grumbled to myself.
Bilba snickered. "Patience. We still have a long time to go with him."
"Don't remind me." I threw the two ammo buckets to Ralrek, who loaded them into the Humvee. I climbed into its cramped quarters.
Two weeks had passed since we were kicked out of the field hospital by the angry doctor and her pint-sized horde of bullies. During that time, we patrolled enough blocks of western Baghdad to put a nice wear pattern in the heel of my boot that ensured I walked with a slight tilt now. And since being scared by one-hundred-and-forty pounds of the meanest medical practitioner I'd ever met, we became intimately familiar with the city and her mortals. I'd learned a lot about the Baghdadis and saw how they struggled because of the military presence. My empathy grew by bounds.
Maybe it was the comfort I felt from my new knowledge about these humans and their home that I was looking forward to patrolling the doctor's neighborhood again.
Two weeks. That was all it took to open my eyes.
Two weeks and we were fully in our independent rhythm, enough to consistently be ahead of schedule. A well-oiled machine.
We waited for the human clock—I really wish we could get satellite signals through the Earth's bedrock so Hell could enjoy the pleasure of accurately synchronized time—to inch its way to our departure hour. Finally, it came, and we pulled away from the Baghdad international Airport safe zone and headed northwest, catching Highway 11 and heading east into the city.
"Remember to keep your heads on a swivel," Sergeant Smith said through his heavy southern accent. "Been some rumors that we might have friends in the neighborhood."
'Friends' meant the Russians, or one of their allies. Word around post was that they were leveraging relationships with a local terrorist cell who operated swiftly and secretly. Small but mobile, they could hit us and scamper away before we knew what was happening. Only once had that happened, not on a patrol I was on, and the damage was minimal. Minimal, but very real.
The Russian influence was growing, but until we saw something, I wasn't going to get myself spun up about it. We had a long deployment ahead, and I didn't want to wear myself out. Plus, thinking of the 'what ifs and maybes' led me straight into the possibility of angels fighting for the Russians. And that led me to thinking about the gorgeous angel Cassie and if she might be in the Overworld again. Then she would distract me, dull my edge, and put me at unnecessary risk.
Best not to think about Russians.
On our left, we passed a mosque. A group of men outside stopped chatting to watch our convoy. I watched them back, silently thanking them for not making any suspicious moves that necessitated evasive action on our part. Or something worse.
The street teed off at an intersection just before an elementary school. We took the left branch and circled the building, respecting the agreement with the local government. Mosques and schools were a no-goes, unless we wanted a hundred thousand pissed off Iraqis on our asses—my vocabulary was, admittedly, becoming a little limited and a lot racier in my time in the Army. Three blocks later, we disembarked from the Humvees and started our patrol.
"Damn, it's hot," I said as sweat trickled down my back after only a few minutes.
"You're telling me," Bilba replied, waving at himself in an up-and-down motion from shoulder to knee. "At this rate, I'm going to be half the size I was when we left the Underworld."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Ralrek said, snickering behind us.
"You're just jealous about how good I look," Bilba said in jovial defense. "I understand. It's not easy, being this sexy."
"I think you look great," Ralrek laughed.
We joined him.
Bilba did look good, having dropped significant weight since the beginning of boot camp to now. He was fitter than when he'd returned from the Eighth Circle after wasting his time attempting to get his mother to love him, fitter than the months after that when he ate well and worked out, and fitter than the grueling first days of boot camp. But as incubi, we couldn't let him think we agreed, or it would go to his head.
"Too bad you can't reduce those big ass ears, or you'd really have the attention of the ladies," I laughed
.
Our fun jibes were cut off by the distinct pop of a rifle. Five feet ahead of Sergeant Smith, the concrete exterior of a building puffed out smoke as shards fell to the sidewalk.
"Down! Down! Down!" Sergeant Smith dropped where he stood. We already were, even before his order.
"Shit," I shouted, looking around for cover. Like most of the squad, I was out in the open. The lucky few fell behind parked vehicles when the shot came.
Three more distinct shots popped through the morning air.
"Zeke, crawl backward!" Bilba yelled.
I looked back under my arm toward him. He and Ralrek, along with Charlie, shared the cover provided by an old model sedan—I've watched enough television during my time in the Overworld and might be slightly obsessed with mortal vehicles to distinguish most makes and models, and can even tell old from new—that looked like it would take a bullet for us and keep chugging along as if nothing happened if we asked it to.
Keeping myself is low to the ground as possible, I scooted back along the rough sidewalk, which was more difficult than it sounds with the body armor, weapon, and supplies weighing me down. Months ago though, I wouldn't have been able to move further than one length of my body; at least the Army had done that much for me.
When I reached cover, I took a deep breath to calm my jagged nerves and oriented myself.
"We have to give cover to Smith," Ralrek said, nodding toward our squad leader's location.
Sergeant Smith was pinned down on the sidewalk, his rifle jutting out in front of him as he sent suppression fire back toward a building on our left.
"Over there!" I pointed to a two-story building with crumbling walls and missing windows. Small mountains of trash were piled along the base of it. Worse for the wear, it had probably been abandoned long before the current escalating tensions. Anyone interested in conducting attacks on convoys would consider this an effective location because I doubted locals even took note of it any longer.
We fired on the building, drowning out the shouts from down the street and the screams of frightened children. After a few rounds of suppression fire, Sergeant Smith scrambled ahead to hide behind a collection of busted pallets and other trash. It wasn't solid protection, but something was better than nothing.
"We've got to get him out of there!" Bilba whimpered during a pause.
"We're trying, buddy."
The call from Smith came over the radio. He was asking for reinforcements. The other squads would be here soon. We just had to hold our positions and keep the attack suppressed until they got here. "Let's keep them dancing for a couple more minutes."
My three counterparts nodded, and we took turns ensuring that whoever was in that building was busy ducking for cover of their own.
In between rounds of traded attacks, the low rumble of multiple Humvees approached. In seconds we would have the full advantage. I checked Smith one more time. He remained hunkered low behind the trash heap. Our assailants would have to know they had him trapped, but not that they were running out of time.
The Humvees racing toward us were now visible, and the attack ramped up. The trash pile in front of Smith popped and puffed under a hailstorm of bullets, bags exploded, pallets splintered. Bullets punctured the walls of the building past our NCO. The insurgents were not the only soldiers who were running out of time.
Instinctively, my hand slapped against my leg, where Creed was hidden. Before I could yank it out, though, Bilba's hand wrapped around my arm.
"Don't."
I growled. He was right. Smith was our leader; our job was to look out for him, but tipping the Balance to save a single human wasn't a smart move, no matter how right it felt. I conceded with a nod to Bilba, then without waiting to give instructions to my counterparts, I opened fire on the location, trying to keep track of how many rounds I'd spent.
The lead Humvee rounded the corner.
"Bilba, tell them to block that trash heap for Sergeant Smith," I shouted.
Another pop and then a scream came from up the sidewalk. From our squad leader's location. My head snapped in his direction and I saw Smith holding his leg, a pained grimace on his face.
"Smith has been hit!"
"We have to get to him," Bilba shouted and then, shaking, rose and popped four more rounds at the building.
I shook my head. "We can't. Got to stay undercover until the Humvees shield him."
Smith was now lying on his side, in danger of being exposed to the enemy. We couldn't get to him. There was too much space between our location and his. The first Humvee was almost on us; he was on his own until then.
I exhausted my clip, hoping I would get lucky, and fell behind my cover to reload.
"Please, Lucifer, make my aim true," Charlie muttered, holding his rifle against his chest.
Ralrek growled. "Just shoot the bastards, Charlie."
Bilba, Ralrek, and Charlie rose above the car enough to level their rifles and took shots through the building's windows.
Two more pops from above. Smith's vest puffed from the first strike. He was flung backward with the second.
Finally, the Humvee raced past and slammed to a halt alongside the trash pile that blocked off Smith. The door flew open and two soldiers jumped out and dragged him toward the vehicle. Once he was safely squared away, the vehicle backed to our location. A soldier popped into the turret and lit the day and our ears on fire by laying suppression fire to the building with the fifty-caliber machine gun.
We squat–crawled alongside the vehicle to get back to ours. Once inside, I climbed up in the turret, gripped the machine gun and let loose on the insurgents. The gun's roar of violence made my ears muffle against the explosive noise. There had been no time to don the double-hearing protection, and as sensitive to sights and sounds as I was becoming, I don't know if it would have helped. Ears were a luxury at this point. The vehicle absorbed the gun's recoil, so at least I'd still have my hands after this.
The walls of the building crumbled as our guns tore into it. It was a powerful feeling behind that weapon, blasting exterior walls apart in a spray of bullets, watching clay, concrete, and the last few slivers of glass splinter and fall back to the earth.
With a rumble, one half of the corner wall crumbled, exposing the interior and the pair of insurgents who had injured Sergeant Smith. The other gunner was still firing at the wall like he planned on taking the entire building down. But I was aiming for the pair of men. This attack felt so close to the angel's attack on the First Circle square that killed hundreds of innocent demons. A field of red rage filmed my eyes. I took aim at the pair even as they fled through a doorway in the back of the now exposed room, but the gun swiveled slower than they moved, and the pair disappeared before I could make them pay for what they had done.
Once I was sure they were gone, I took cover inside the Humvee, my chest pounding as adrenaline surged through every muscle. The world outside the vehicle had grown unnaturally quiet—probably because my ears were ringing—as happens during armed battles in the middle of a neighborhood.
"Smith needs urgent care," Sergeant Rogers' voice squawked over the radio. "Need to get him back to base fast, he's losing too much blood."
I snagged the handset. "How bad is it, Sergeant?"
"Bad."
"Think we can get back to the base?" The handset was slippery in my sweaty palm.
A long pause. Finally, Sergeant Rogers' answer crackled over the radio. "We need to be quick. He's out."
"There's a clinic nearby. We found it on patrol a couple weeks ago. We can take him there."
"Iraqis? Don't think so."
I gripped the handset tighter and waited for my scowl to slip from my face. "What if we get caught in traffic or another attack on the way back? Do we have that kind of time? Does Sergeant Smith? The clinic is two blocks away. We'll be there in a matter of minutes."
More silence. I shared a look with Bilba and could have chewed through a chimera's femur, so tense was my jaw as we waited to hear
Sergeant Rogers' decision.
The radio crackled, voice incoming. "Okay. Swing around and take the lead."
I slapped Ralrek on the shoulder as he punched the Humvee forward, pulling out and speeding through the streets.
We rounded the corner and pulled alongside the field clinic. Unlike the last time, there wasn't a long line of patients waiting to access the clinic. We slammed to a stop, checked for threats, and jumped out of the vehicle. It was irresponsible, but the urgency of the matter called for some measured risk.
The squad in the other Humvee extracted Smith as I raced inside to find the doctor.
The front room only had a single occupant in a bed, the rest were free. The tone was much more subdued this time, at least until I rushed in, Bilba close on my heels.
"What do you need?" A short, ancient Iraqi woman asked, lifting her chin in open rebellion.
"I'm looking for the American doctor," I said quietly in Arabic. "We have an emergency."
The little old lady sniffed at me and gave no other response, but turned away and walked through the single door in the back corner of the room.
"Should we follow her?" Bilba asked.
I shook my head. "We're invasive enough. Let's give them their space. If she doesn't come back, then we'll go snooping."
Within seconds, the frazzle-haired American doctor stepped out. Her brown eyes sparked. I hoped she was in a better mood than last time.
"Didn't I already kick you out of my clinic?" she said as soon as she entered the room.
"A guy in our squad was shot. I think multiple times. He's bleeding out. Can you help?"
The little old Iraqi woman stood behind the doctor, shooting daggers with her eyes. "Serves him right," she grumbled in Arabic.
"Afra, be nice," the doctor said without turning. To me, she said, "Bring him in."
"Can you?" I asked Bilba, who scampered away. Turning back, I said, "Thank you for doing this, doctor. We weren't sure if we could get him back to the base in time."
