Jack Coughlin - Dead Shot

They used knives and surgical scissors to slice away the thick gear harness, then tore open the MOPP suit and the T-shirt to get to the wound. A lot of blood was spilling from a small entry hole on the right side of the muscled back.

“Help me turn him over to see if there is an exit wound,” Suarez said. There was none, but Kyle could hear oxygen gurgling from the bullet hole, and air flowed out like bubbles in water. They had him propped in a sitting position.

Double-Oh was in the Golden Hour, the vital sixty minutes between the instant a man is hit and the time a field hospital gets him on the table. Keep him alive back to Camp Doha and his chances of recovery improved considerably. Each minute was a treasure.

Captain Newman was on his radio. “Whiskey One-Niner, this is Hotel Seven. I have one emergency evac. Forty-year-old male. Gunshot wound to the back.”

“Roger, Hotel Seven,” said the smooth voice of the helo pilot. “We are inbound and will meet you at designated pickup zone. Three minutes. We have a PJ aboard.” A PJ was an Air Force pararescue specialist trained in emergency medical procedures.

“Roger that,” said Newman.

“Alert the PJ that it’s probably a collapsed lung with internal bleeding. Vital signs appear shallow,” Suarez called over his shoulder. Newman repeated the information.

“Help me here, Shake. We have to dress the wound and help his breathing,” Suarez said. He rummaged around in his first aid kit, found morphine, and tossed it aside because he could not administer it to an unconscious man. Then his hand closed around a thin plastic card about the size of a driver’s license. He pushed it against the bleeding wound. Above that he secured a pressure bandage with medical tape.

Kyle kept holding the unconscious man in a sitting position, talking to him with a stream of vulgarity and insults, just as they usually spoke to one another. Maybe Double-Oh could hear him and maybe he couldn’t, but if Kyle spoke normally, then his friend might recognize the voice and believe the wound was not serious. That would inspire hope. Getting all sappy and sorry would have the opposite effect.

“I ain’t got time for your crap tonight. Patch up your fat ass and haul it to the hospital, then wait around to see if you bleed out. Probably have to dig your grave by myself and then put up with a bunch of Pentagon pukes at your funeral. You stand up out there like a fucking carnival target and get shot by that amateur? Jesus Christ, Dawkins, you are supposed to be some kind of Superman black ops dude, and I swear you would trip over a crack in the sidewalk if somebody wasn’t around to lead you around like a blind mutt. You did this on purpose, didn’t you? Just to get some attention and another medal and polish your résumé before retiring. Anyway, what did you leave me in your will? You ain’t really got nothing I want but maybe that Ford truck, so I’ll take that. Dammit, don’t you die until you buy some better stuff, you hear me?”

The time for stealth was long past, so Captain Newman had designated their current overwatch position as the pickup zone for the Pave Low extraction. There was no indication of any more vehicles on the road from the city, but that would not last long if the Iranian patrol was supposed to report in at regular intervals. The roar of the approaching helicopter grew louder, and as soon as it touched down, Marines grabbed the legs and arms of Double-Oh and got him into the open door.

Swanson came next, with his hand tight around the wrist of the girl to help her aboard and strap her in. She took a last look around at the carnage of the ambush, knowing she had escaped certain death, and did not resist. Whatever lay ahead was better than being another corpse for the Palace of Death. Then the Pave Low was gone, leaving no trace that it had ever been in Iranian airspace.

T HE TWIN ENGINES STRAINEDas the helicopter grabbed for altitude. The PJ wrapped a blood pressure cuff on Double-Oh, leaned in close to use his stethoscope, then reported to the pilot. “Breathing is ragged, heartbeat still strong. Vital signs weak but steady, so he’s holding his own. We can keep him stable until we land. Notify the docs to prepare for a serious gunshot wound in the back. The lung is punctured.” The corpsman cleared an IV needle, found a vein in the arm for a hydrating solution, and then adjusted an oxygen mask over Double-Oh’s pale face. He cut away the field bandage, cleaned the wound, administered some medication to the opening, and recovered it with a thick, large sterile bandage.

Kyle could do nothing to help and snapped his mind back to the mission. “Captain Newman, we got everybody?”

“Roger that. I counted them coming on. All plus one.”

Plus one. The woman. Swanson, seated beside her, was suddenly aware of how they must look to her eyes, a group of large foreign men with faces greased with camo warpaint, laden with weapons and helmets and packs. The attempted rape, followed by the unexpected ambush, followed again by being snatched aboard a helicopter-her senses were overwhelmed, and she sat staring straight ahead, her arms clutched about her. He removed his cap, laid aside his weapon, and pulled a box of baby wipes from an onboard pouch, using the soft papers to wipe away some of the grime and grease on his face. Then he handed her the box. The small gesture was an icebreaker, forcing her to act, to make a minor decision.

After a moment, she pulled out a few papers and wiped her own face, with a small smile of appreciation and a nod.

“Don’t worry,” Kyle said in Arabic. “You are safe with us.”

“They killed my friend,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t save him, too.”

The woman sniffled and pulled away her scarf to dab at some tears. Lustrous brown eyes, firm cheekbones, a pretty face. She asked in English, “You are Americans?”

“Yes. U.S. Marines,” Kyle said, then changed the subject and handed her an unopened bottle of water. “What were you two doing out at that place so early in the morning?”

“We went out looking for my brother, a student. He was taken prisoner last week because of his political views, and we learned yesterday that he was being held in the forbidden zone. We wanted to help him escape.” She spoke with a slight British accent.

“But it was some kind of secret military installation,” Kyle said. “You had to know that.”

The woman nodded. “The site was being evacuated because the work, some government project, apparently has been completed. People were leaving, trucks hauling away equipment. We felt we could be safe if we moved in a hurry.” She began to weep, a nervous shudder shaking her body. “My brother was just a headstrong boy.”

Kyle recognized that physical shock was setting in, but he would not touch her, for in her country, no physical contact whatsoever was allowed between unmarried and unrelated men and women.

“Did you see anyone in the building?” she asked softly.

“I’m sorry. There was no one alive in there when we arrived,” he said.

As she sobbed, her shoulders heaved, and finally she leaned against Kyle’s shoulder for support as the helicopter jarred through the sky. “He was just a child. Only sixteen.”

He let her lean against him but remained silent. The girl had just broken a huge religious and cultural taboo, and Swanson knew she had reached some momentous conclusion about her life. He would not tell her that her brother was probably one of the six unfortunate inmates who were found dead and locked in individual cells. Instead, he said, “Try to relax. We’ll be in Kuwait soon and sort things out. You’ll be okay.”

Travis Hughes watched the interplay between Swanson and the woman carefully, again observing the duality of the complex man. The Marines had expected Shake to remain the coldhearted son-of-a-bitch leader who was perfectly capable of standing in the shadows and letting those Iranian assholes rape the girl rather than take the chance of compromising his mission. With him, the mission always came first.