Rescuing Mercy (Special Forces: Operation Alpha)
A Dead Presidents MC Spinoff
Harley Stone
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
A note from the author
Also by Harley Stone
Acknowledgments
Read the first chapter of Link'd Up
More Special Forces: Operation Alpha World Books
Books by Susan Stoker
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
© 2018 ACES PRESS, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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Dear Readers,
Welcome to the Special Forces: Operation Alpha Fan-Fiction world!
If you are new to this amazing world, in a nutshell the author wrote a story using one or more of my characters in it. Sometimes that character has a major role in the story, and other times they are only mentioned briefly. This is perfectly legal and allowable because they are going through Aces Press to publish the story.
This book is entirely the work of the author who wrote it. While I might have assisted with brainstorming and other ideas about which of my characters to use, I didn’t have any part in the process or writing or editing the story.
I’m proud and excited that so many authors loved my characters enough that they wanted to write them into their own story. Thank you for supporting them, and me!
READ ON!
Xoxo
Susan Stoker
Dedicated to:
The combat medics.
Before the wounded call on God, before they call out to their moms, they call on you.
Thank you, for answering their calls.
About the book
Tragedy drove Landon Welch to enlist in the Army with no plans of returning home. After serving seven years as a combat medic, he's teetering on the edge of burnout when ordered to take leave and confront his demons.
Landon’s been searching for redemption, but he never expected to find Mercy.
Preschool director Mercedes Foster has dedicated her life to brightening the futures of low-income children. She’s intelligent, driven, and avoiding distractions, especially one sexy soldier with questionable motives. But when Mercy’s brother gets mixed up in trouble that could endanger her cause and risk her life, Landon might be just the complication she needs to survive.
Chapter 1
Landon
It was another day in paradise, and I was joking around with Truck Commander Briggs about one of the guys in our platoon. Stearman had gotten wasted during his last leave and had a jellyfish tattooed on the back of his calf. As if a grown-ass man with a jellyfish tattoo wasn’t bad enough, the artwork looked suspiciously like a giant dick, providing the entire platoon with a much-needed shot of comic relief.
“You know how Stearman gets when he’s drinking,” Briggs said. “I bet he marched into that tattoo parlor like he was tough shit. Was probably bragging about how much he can bench or makin’ noise about something, and his artist decided to have a little fun.”
I nodded. “Sounds about right. I still can’t believe he didn’t realize what it looks like.”
“Some people just can’t see the dick in things,” Briggs deadpanned. His humor was so dry people often missed it. But not me. I appreciated the hell out of every effort the good men and women of the 101st Airborne Division made at humor. After all, not much was funny in Afghanistan.
Our current mission had us traveling southwest of Bagram Airfield, checking into reports of insurgent activity. Briggs and I were sitting in the back seat of the Buffalo, a fifty-thousand-pound vehicle with a telescoping arm for digging up bombs. We were the second vehicle in the convoy, and we often passed our time with jokes as we rolled over the dirt supply route, watching for plastic containers, pipes, debris, animal carcasses, disturbed dirt, or any number of indicators of a possible roadside bomb. The assholes who kept attacking this supply route wanted Americans dead, and they weren’t picky about how they killed us.
“What do you think Stearman will cover the jelly-dick up with?” I asked, imagining a slew of new joke fodder.
Before Briggs could answer, a blast from behind shook the Buffalo.
Steadying myself in my seat, I searched for the source. A cloud of smoke engulfed the command vehicle behind us.
“Stop, stop, stop!” Briggs shouted into his headset, his gaze also fixed on the blast cloud. “Lieutenant Rodriguez’s vehicle just took a hit! Two-six, this is Buffalo, come in!”
Two-six, our command vehicle, didn’t answer.
We rolled to a stop and the air grew thick with anticipation as we waited for a response while scanning the area for an attack. Since two vehicles had rolled over the bomb before it exploded, chances were that it had been remotely detonated. About a half-mile away, four onlookers watched us from the top of a sandy hill. Keeping one eye on them, and one eye on the vehicle in trouble, I gripped my rifle and waited as the attack was called in to the command post.
“Two-six, this is Buffalo, come in,” Briggs repeated.
“Buffalo, this is Two-six, yeah, everyone’s fine. Everyone’s good.”
The Buffalo’s occupants released a collective breath. Our driver let out a cheer.
“Holy shit, we got lucky. Small blast,” Specialist Jeffries, also known as Smiley, said in my ear piece. He was the driver of the vehicle that had been hit.
“Buffalo, this is Two-Six, can you see how my tire’s looking from there?” Rodriguez asked in my ear.
Briggs craned his neck around for a better view. “Two-Six this is Buffalo, your front right tire looks shredded. We’re gonna have to hook you up to the Wrecker.” The Wrecker was a hundred-thousand pound eight-wheeled armored tow truck, currently stopped toward the back of the convoy.
“Copy. I’m gonna try to make my way to it.”
Despite the shredded tire, this was the right course of action. The blast had been small, and insurgents were known to set off smaller IEDs to disable vehicles so they’d be forced to call for help. Then the insurgents would trigger a second, bigger blast.
Willing the command vehicle to move, we all watched. The engine roared as Smiley gave it gas, but nothing happened.
“This is Two-Six. We’re dead in the water. I’m gonna check and see what the problem is.”
The command vehicle door swung open and Rodriguez’s helmeted head popped out, looking from
side to side before the rest of his body emerged.
That’s when the second blast hit.
Rodriguez was thrown as the vehicle exploded. The entire area was engulfed in a giant blast cloud. Judging by the size of the cloud alone, the bomb had to be about a forty-pounder.
Briggs called the command post and requested a medical evac as the rest of us kept scanning the area. Two more onlookers joined the four on the hill, and I was chomping at the bit to get to our wounded and see who we could save. As the convoy’s combat medic, it was my duty to drag soldiers out of the fight so I could treat them, but first we had to make sure we weren’t under attack. IEDs were often followed up with some other assault, and I wouldn’t do anybody any good if I was caught between the vehicles when some asshole started firing rocket propelled grenades at us.
Besides, since the command vehicle had been occupied by four men, I was going to need help.
The blast cloud started to dissipate, and I could make out Rodriguez’s motionless, prone form lying about twenty feet from the vehicle.
More of the vehicle came into view, and parts of it were on fire. If we had any hope of saving anyone, we needed to move now. Briggs must have been thinking the same thing, because he spoke into his mic, communicating with the rest of the convoy. “Doc’s gonna need help. Let’s get him some cover and get those fires out.”
Briggs released me, and I sprinted for Rodriguez, staying in the relative safety of the tire tracks for as long as I could. Dropping to my knees as I reached him, I checked his pulse as I called out his name. He was unresponsive, but his pulse was strong. His left arm—from bicep to wrist—was shredded, so I slapped a tourniquet just below his shoulder to stop the bleeding and checked the rest of him over. None of his other wounds required my immediate attention, and Jones was sprinting toward me to help. I signaled for her to grab Rodriguez and get him to a truck, then I headed for the command vehicle.
The fires were mostly out by the time I reached it. Edburg called my attention to a body lying at his feet. Judging by the missing chunk of his skull, Marx, the vehicle’s gunner, had died on impact. Giving Edburg the task of taking the body to a vehicle, I continued searching through the wreckage.
“Doc, over here,” Jenkins said.
She was standing beside Malone who looked like he’d been beat up pretty good, but was conscious and responsive. I hurried over to check him out. His left pant leg was torn and bloody just below the knee. Using my trauma sheers, I cut up the pant leg to expose the wound. It was bleeding heavily, so I applied a tourniquet and checked the rest of him over.
“I think his right arm’s broken,” I said to Jenkins. “Get him on a vehicle.”
Turning to scan the area, I asked. “Anyone got eyes on the fourth?”
“Here,” O’Donnel called out.
I followed his voice to find Smiley. O’Donnel had cleared away enough debris for me to get to the wounded driver. Smiley was conscious, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths, but lying still. His gaze didn’t follow me as I approached.
This squadron was like my family, and like a family, I was closer to some than others. Jeffries was my buddy. I’d nicknamed him Smiley shortly after he’d joined us two years ago, because he was the happiest son-of-a-bitch I’d ever met. Born into a big family from some podunk town in Alabama, he was so damn grateful to be serving his country that no amount of bullshit seemed to wipe the smile from his face. Didn’t matter how far we were marching, how hot the sun was, what kind of shit poker hand he had, or how many times Staff Sergeant Kline yelled at him, the corners of Smiley’s lips were always upturned in a lopsided shit-eating grin.
Sometimes he drove me crazy with that goddamn smile.
But I would have given anything to see it as I crouched down beside him. He was gasping for air, so I cut away his shirts to see what kind of damage he’d taken to the chest. A large purple bruise was already forming from his belly button to his nipples, most likely due to impact from the steering wheel. I checked his pulse, feeling it increase while growing steadily weaker. His jugular veins were popping out of his neck.
Despite the difficulty he was having breathing, there were no holes in his chest. I suspected he had collapsed lungs, crushed ribs, and likely a pericardial tamponade. Judging by the location of the bruise, his heart was probably injured and bleeding into the surrounding membranous sac. If that was the case, the sac would fill with blood and strangle the heart, preventing it from fully expanding and contracting. The condition would be fatal without surgery.
I inserted bilateral 14-gauge needles into his chest, hoping his jugular vein distention and difficulty breathing could be alleviated by decompressing his chest and allowing his lungs to expand.
“Second intercostal space, mid clavicular line,” I whispered to myself. The medical term for below the collar bone and in line with the nipples was like a mantra, having been drilled into us and repeated like a goddamn nursery rhyme.
He was still struggling to breathe around crushed ribs, and I couldn’t tell if any air was expressed via my needles. As I put my head to his chest, I could hear the muffled beat of his heart.
“Am I gonna make it, Doc?” Smiley half-whispered, half-wheezed.
The question took me back in time to my training days.
Staff Sergeant Bates was pacing the front of the classroom, lecturing us about procedures and taking questions when one of my fellow students asked, “What’s the most difficult part of being a combat medic? Is it the long hours? Or dragging men off the battlefield?”
Staff Sergeant Bates stopped suddenly, his hand scratching at the whiskers on his chin while he considered the question. “While those both take their toll, they’re not what’ll drain you. No, what’ll really take it out of you is having to make the call… having to look at a fellow soldier and know they’re too far gone to save. That it’s not even worth your time to try. Worse yet, every once in a while one of these soldiers will ask you if they’re gonna die, and lying to them… it’s rough but necessary.”
Confused, I raised my hand.
“Welch,” he asked, nodding my direction.
“Lying to them?” I asked. I joined the Army because I was hellbent on doing the right thing. Lying seemed like the easy way out and I wasn’t looking for any free passes. “Why would you lie? If you know you can’t save a person, shouldn’t you be honest, Staff Sergeant? A soldier deserves the truth. They need to know, so they can prepare for death.”
He chuckled, but the sound was self-deprecating, bearing not even the slightest hint of humor. “Prepare for death. You make it sound pert near magical, Welch. Let me ask you somethin’, soldier. You ever look a dying man in the face?”
Yes, I had, but I had no desire to divulge that information. “No, Staff Sergeant,” I lied.
“Well, I have. More than I can count. The first one was Private Nelson and I’d known him since boot camp. He took a bullet to the gut and it went septic. He smelled like shit, looked worse, and there wasn’t a damn thing magical about it. There is no preparing for death. Private Nelson didn’t call out to his priest, or God, or even his momma to save him. No, he called out to me like I was the second coming of Christ because he believed I could hold back death. He wasn’t looking for honesty. He was looking for hope. You’re a stronger man than me if you can feed a dying man honesty instead. Trust me, Welch, when the time comes, you’ll lie. Then you’ll carry the guilt of that lie around with you forever, wondering if you did the right thing. But the next time you find yourself in that situation, you’ll make the same fuckin’ call.”
Smiley was a good man who’d served his country well and without complaint. He’d once told me he never wanted to be anything other than a soldier. Now, he’d die for following that dream. I wished like hell I could take his place, but death didn’t barter for souls.
Trust me, I’d tried.
I patted his hand and lied my ass off. “Yes. It’s gonna hurt like hell, but you’ll live. I got you, Smiley.”<
br />
“We have hostiles incoming,” Briggs said in my ear. “Time to go.”
The sound of machine guns firing meant that the squadron was giving me cover fire. Smiley groaned as I threw him over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry and hauled ass back to the Buffalo.
I’d barely gotten him settled in his seat before the assholes on the hill started launching rocket propelled grenades at us. Our gunners did their job as the convoy began to move again. We were sitting ducks where we were, and we had air support and a medical evac on the way. We needed to get to an ideal location before they arrived.
“Two vehicles coming up on the right,” Briggs said into his mouthpiece.
Another truck reported more hostiles behind us. If I was a praying man, I’d be hitting my knees right about now, but after seven years of serving as an Army combat medic, I had little faith in hopes and prayers anymore.
And, I had shit to do.
“How you holdin’ up, Smiley?” I asked, checking over his wounds again, looking for something I could treat.
His eyes were closed. I took his pulse, feeling it slow beneath my fingertips. His breathing had gone from erratic to agonal. He took a few quick breaths, then one deep one, stopped, then his breaths were quick again. No, Smiley wasn’t going to make it. He was already dead, but his body didn’t know it yet.
Surgery might save him, but he’d never make it to the table in time. There was nothing else I could do for him.
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