He fell into the Cougar and bounced on the metal floor. The old man didn’t move. James looked down. His arm wouldn’t move the way it was supposed to. A look of utter amazement came over his face.
I’ve been hit!
The adrenaline flowing through his body slowly diminished and the pain that had so far gone unnoticed took over. Blood gushed from his right side. The pain was unbearable now.
He knew the other vehicles were close. Sounds were growing softer as his breathing became more labored. I’m inside, he thought. The Cougar is muffling the guns. He tried to reach up to undo his helmet, but his arm wouldn’t work.
The Saxon moved forward one last time. Its reinforced front bumper pushed against the Cougar’s front wheel and its engine revved; the Cougar slid out of the way. The Saxon moved forward and brought its machine gun to bear on The Ritz.
With his head raised off the metal floor, James saw Bravo One and Bravo Two speeding toward him. He struggled to his side and reached for his rifle. Breathing hurt now. He stood, the door hinge supporting the weight of the rifle, and he brought the sights to bear on The Ritz.
Bravo One skidded to a halt beside the Saxon and joined in the covering fire. Bravo Two stopped. Its rear doors swung open. It was painful to move his left arm, but he could still pull the trigger. James opened fire, joining the other vehicles. “Move!” he yelled, and then fell to his knees as the magazine emptied.
The medic from Bravo Two sprinted around the corner, his shoulder hitting the door frame as he bounced into the Cougar.
James’ head slumped to his chest as he fell to the ground. A small trickle of blood spilled out of his mouth, and his eyes stared without seeing.
Chapter 3
Advance Surgical Center
Visoko, Former Republic of Yugoslavia
4 December, 0720 Hours
Major Vince Webber, commanding officer of the Advance Surgical Center, looked at the people around the battered old card table. “You seriously want to double the stakes?” They stared, and Webber shook his head. “Either I’m getting fleeced, or you guys are just plain stupid.”
“For Christ sake, sir. Just deal the damned cards,” Captain Gary Cahill snapped.
“How many?” Webber tapped his finger impatiently on the cards and waited as they arranged their hands appropriately.
“Two,” Cahill said. He tossed his cards to the center of the table. Webber repeated the process for the others, and finally looked at his own hand.
“Dealer takes one.” If the poker gods were smiling, a ten of spades would give him a straight flush. Any other ten and he’d have a straight. Any other spade would give him a flush. He couldn’t see himself losing this hand.
“Starlight, Starlight,” the radio crackled. Starlight was the call sign for the surgical center. “This is Lion Seven Bravo, inbound to your location. Over.”
The radio operator, careful to keep his cards hidden, reached for the handset. “Lion Seven Bravo, this is Starlight. Over.”
“Lion Seven Bravo. ETA figures six minutes with two casualties.”
Webber grabbed the handset. “This is Starlight Niner. Send sit rep, over.”
“Lion Seven Bravo. Both casualties are male. Your people are doing CPR on one right now. Looks like a weapon blew up in his face. Second casualty took one in the chest. He’s in and out of consciousness. Over.”
Webber removed the phone from his ear and looked at Cahill. “Get Avery and his team up for this one. Lion Seven Bravo, this is Starlight Niner. We’ll be ready for you. Over.” Silence greeted him. Proper radio procedure dictated that the person originating the call was the one who had to end it.
“Lion Seven Bravo. The second one’s Dusty.”
Webber paled; his hand tightened around the phone. They were all from Victoria. They were all from the same regiment and they all knew Morgan. Everyone had won money from him at one poker table or another, and although Webber heard the words, comprehension was slow. “Say again.”
“Lion Seven Bravo. Dusty’s vest stopped three rounds. He took one in the chest. His arm stopped a bayonet and there’s a crease in his helmet that looks like another round just about finished him off. Medics said to relay the following: ‘pulse 140. Blood pressure 80 over 45 and dropping. Blood type O positive.’ ETA four minutes. Lion Seven Bravo out.”
Webber threw the handset down and ran after the others who were already in full stride. “Two full teams to the OR,” he yelled to the communicator, who relayed the order over the camp speakers. He would handle Morgan’s surgery himself. He was the best chest man in the military and nobody was going to screw this one up, at least not if he could help it.
The helicopter touched down five hundred meters from the hospital. The medics already had a bag of blood hooked up. There was no sign of Morgan’s shirt. “Get a second IV and keep that oxygen going,” Webber barked. He glanced at Morgan’s dog tags to confirm the blood type.
He placed the stethoscope on the left side of his chest and listened. “Good, good,” he said quietly. He moved to the right, and his brow furled. He listened in several different spots.
Nothing.
“Great. On top of everything else, he has a collapsed right lung. Give me a knife. If we don’t get this lung inflated, he’ll drown in his own damned blood. I want a nasogastric tray and a catheter hooked up. Have X-ray standing by. I want a full chest set yesterday.”
He took a deep breath to steady himself as two medics gently rolled Morgan to the left. Webber cut upward, between the fourth and fifth ribs and carefully inserted the chest tube. Blood poured out of the tube, and then lessened. He listened again and nodded. He looked down and his gaze softened. “Hang on, Dusty. Just hang on.”
He ran into the surgical building and scrubbed in record time. He was waiting in the operating room as Morgan was prepped.
“Where is it?” Captain Cahill asked softly when the X-rays came back. He and Webber studied the pictures now clipped to the light board.
“There.” Webber pointed to the x-ray. “Entrance wound under the right armpit. That part’s simple enough. Looks like it broke the third rib and bounced around a bit. Look here,” he said, and pointed to the heart. “The pericardial sac is full of blood. No wonder his vitals are suppressed. Any further and his heart would have stopped it.”
0912 Hours
Webber held the bullet in a pair of tweezers and shook his head before dropping it in a metal pan. “That’s it. Gary, he’s all yours. I’ve got to call HQ.” He pulled off his gloves and leaned over Morgan’s ear. “This is going to cost you big time and you’re not going to get out of it by dying.” He walked out into the cold morning air.
“How is he?” the radioman asked.
Webber sat down beside him and shrugged. “If he lives through the day, he’ll probably make it. I don’t know how he made it this far. Phone HQ.” He sat and rubbed his eyes. Surgery was never easy, but when the patient was a close friend, it was downright miserable.
“G3 Ops, Major Dixon,” a voice said over the radio speaker.
Webber picked up the phone. “Dave, Vince here. Take down a casualty report for me. I’ll call the general when we’re done.”
“What general?”
“Hanson. Dusty just got zapped.” Two minutes later, Webber finished the standard report and lit a cigarette.
“You really should have waited till someone else was on duty before passing this along. The Old Man is going to go through the roof.”