Masters at Arms (Rescue Me Saga, #0.5)(42)
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 f*cking 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 f*cked 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 stronghold. 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 clusterf*ck. 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.