Tom Cain: No survivors

Carver had suffered a hairline fracture in one ankle and badly sprained the other. The pain that stabbed through him with every breath told him that several of his ribs were cracked.

He reached over and untied the rope that connected them to the parachute harness and the bomb. As he loosened the loop around his waist, Alix rolled away from him. She came to a halt on the ground next to him, lying on her front, her head tilted away from him, motionless. He spoke her name, but there was no reply.

At first he assumed she'd been knocked cold by their fall down the hillside. And then he realized that his hands were covered with something wet and dark. For a second he thought it might be mud. He prayed it was mud. But then he realized that his chest was covered with it, too, and he knew that it must be blood.

"Oh, God, no…" he moaned, and he patted his hands over his body, desperately hoping that they might find the wound that had produced the bleeding. That could happen. You got cuts sometimes, deep ones, and just didn't feel them.

But Carver had not been cut. He knew that.

So then he looked across at Alix and the moonlight cast a gray wash over the ragged, purple-black hole, high up by her shoulder blade, that could have been made only by Vermulen's gun. Carver placed a finger to her throat, feeling for a pulse… and it was there, not a steady beat, but a delicate, barely perceptible flutter. He listened for the bubbling, sucking sound of a lung wound and heard nothing. That was some relief at least, but not much.

The entry wound was much bigger and messier than Carver would have expected, as if someone had punched a fist right into her. The bullet must have already been deformed by the time it hit her, maybe by a ricochet off a metal surface. That would explain why it had lodged inside her, instead of going straight through and hitting Carver as well. He tried not to think about the internal havoc the misshapen slug had caused. Even if it hadn't hit any vital organs, she'd lost a lot of blood and more was still pouring from her.

Carver pulled off his shirt, ignoring the stabs of pain from his battered rib cage, and ripped it into strips. Then he gently lifted Alix into a sitting position, wincing as she gave a soft, semiconscious moan, and took off her shirt, exposing the shredded skin, splintered bone, and gaping flesh torn from her back. He crumpled one of the fabric strips into a wad and pressed it against the wound, trying to stanch the flow of blood. He used the other strips to improvise a bandage around her shoulder to hold the wad in place.

It was, at best, a temporary measure. If Alix did not receive proper medical attention soon, she would die. All he could do now was take her body in his arms and hold her. He spoke to her quietly, telling her all the things that had gone unsaid for so many months. There were occasional moments when he thought she might have heard some of what he said, as she blinked or twitched her lips, but that wasn't the point of his words.

He was still sitting there when the Black Hawk found him. It landed on a patch of flat ground not far away, and he saw the beams from the flashlights slicing through the darkness as the people walked toward him. Then there was a figure standing in front of him and a hand on his shoulder.

"You okay?"

It was a woman's voice. He glanced up and saw a slim, petite civilian, looking ill at ease in army combats.

"Yeah," said Samuel Carver, though the word was sighed as much as spoken. "We're just fine."

Then he rose to his feet, with Alix still cradled in his arms, and started limping down the ravine toward the waiting helicopter.