Honor Courage Commitment

by Jordan Danzig

  Honor Courage Commitment

  Jordan Danzig

  Dark Tiger Publishing

  Copyright © 2017 by Jordan Danzig

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are

  a product of the author’s imagination. Locales are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

  Honor Courage Commitment used with

  permission of the United States Marine Corps.

  Dark Tiger Publishing

  jordandanzig.com

  Cover design by Peter O’ Connor at BespokeBookCovers.com

  ISBN-978-0-9957375-1-8

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  About the Author

  Dedicated to those who answered the call,

  and who made the ultimate sacrifice.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to Wend Britton and Guy Morris

  for their encouragement, support, and belief.

  And to my editor, Debra Osborne,

  who went above and beyond.

  1

  An array of medical equipment punctuated the stillness with rhythmic beeps, low-grade hisses, and slow clicks. Amanda awaited the doctor’s instructions as he silently observed the man in the bed. The patient rolled his head and pawed at the sheet covering him.

  “Vitals,” the doctor said, without taking his eyes off the man.

  Critical Care Nurse Amanda Wilks activated the blood pressure cuff and while it automatically inflated, she took some other readings. “Heart rate 75. Sats 95%.” She inserted a digital thermometer in the patient’s ear. “Temp 101.1 down from 101.9.” After recording the rate of fluid being administered through an IV hook-up, she monitored his breathing. “Deep and regular.” The cuff beeped. “110/75.”

  The doctor, U.S. Navy Commander William Gant, nodded and headed for the door. “Keep me apprised of any significant changes.”

  Amanda finished updating the patient’s chart. “Well, the commander says hearing is the last sense to go when you slip into unconsciousness and the first to return when resurfacing. So you’ll have to get used to me prattling on until you can tell me to shut up.”

  She straightened the bed sheet. “There will be someone here should you need anything, and I’ll keep a close eye on you too.”

  She returned at regular intervals. The first time he was sleeping peacefully, but on each subsequent visit,he was more restless. On her latest rounds, the member of staff monitoring him reported that his eyelids were flickering, so Amanda paged Gant right away with the news.

  He arrived almost instantly and headed straight to the bedside with barely a glance in her direction. “Did you get the new drugs?”

  “Yes, sir.” She unlocked a drawer on her rolling computer station and from it took a small vial and a syringe.

  “Now that he’s coming around, I’m changing the pain meds.”

  Amanda passed Gant the requested items. He drew a measured dose, flicked the syringe, then slowly injected the contents into the IV. The patient’s eyelids fluttered open and he made eye contact with Amanda who was standing beside Gant.

  “Hello,” she said.

  The patient’s mouth opened slightly.

  She tried again. “Can you hear me?”

  He continued to stare at her.

  “Do you know where you are? Do you know who you are?”

  His lips moved, but he didn’t produce any sound.

  She held her hand in front of her. “Can you see how many fingers I’m holding up?”

  A few unintelligible syllables came out of his mouth.

  Gant closed the valve on the line. “Let’s give him a little longer to regain his senses,” he said with a thin smile. The patient’s gaze switched to Gant. “You’re back stateside. We’ve kept you heavily sedated because you’ve undergone several rounds of surgery. The anesthesia is wearing off now.”

  The man closed his eyes.

  Gant stepped away from the bed and disposed of the used syringe. “I’d like you to sit with him for a while and monitor his reactions as he comes around.”

  Amanda pulled up a chair. Gant wasn’t just concerned about a chance of unwelcome side effects. She’d witnessed the disorientation sometimes experienced by those waking up in a hospital bed several thousand miles from where they’d been injured. Some woke up thinking they were still in the middle of the combat zone. They might ask for their weapons, or try to get the family members at their bedsides to take cover.

  The patient’s left hand curled into a partial fist and he made a feeble attempt to pound the bed.

  2

  The day began with a standard ‘hearts and minds’ tour of local villages; maintaining a presence, talking to elders, handing out gifts to kids. But on receiving credible intelligence about insurgent activity to the north, the mission shifted from rapport to reconnaissance.

  On the Gunner’s Platform, USMC Sergeant Garrett Mason keyed his helmet mic. “Rein up there, Kage, spidey senses are tingling about that guy on the moped.”

  “I see him.” Sergeant K. G. Lowell brought the vehicle to a crawl which gave some respite from the rutted unpaved road. The moped veered off across open land. Riding shotgun, Staff Sergeant Domingo Rivera turned three-quarters of the way around in his seat to grab some binoculars off the back seat.

  A muffled boom under the right front wheel was followed by a grinding screech. The purpose-designed, V-shaped hull of the M-ATV deflected most of the blast from the IED, but the explosion was still powerful enough to inflict a small penetration of the armor and lift the vehicle off the ground.

  The sudden upheaval threw Mason clear of the vehicle. Instinctively, he attempted a parachute roll to break his fall but landed hard on his left ankle. Dirt, fragments of stone, and shrapnel rained down around him. He pushed himself to a sitting position, blinked rapidly to clear his vision and spat to rid the grit from his teeth. Dust hung in the thin February air, obscuring his view of the scene. He shook his head in a vain attempt to stop the ringing in his ears.

  Oblivious to the pain in his foot, he ran to the sand-colored heap of metal. The others had to be OK. After all, this was an up-armored vehicle
, offering a much higher level of protection than the woefully under-armored Humvee. The right front wheel was gone, along with most of the engine. The right rear tire was sunk in a deep crater created by the explosion. Mason wrenched open the front passenger door. Rivera and Lowell sat slumped in their four-point seat belts. Blood and dust were rapidly merging into a sticky mud.

  Their corpsman, Petty Officer First Class Marc Kalinski, who’d been riding in the second vehicle, pushed past Mason and checked the injured men for vital signs. “They’re alive!”

  Lowell lifted a hand to catch the blood dripping from a deep cut above his right eye.

  “Hang in there, Kage,” Kalinski said. “Is it just your head? You hurting anywhere else?”

  Lowell’s mouth twisted into an approximation of a smile. “I’ll fix this myself. See to Rivera.”

  A Marine called from on top of Kalinski’s vehicle. “You need help with any of that, Ski?”

  “No, Matty. You and Viper stand security.”

  Sergeant Matty Kraus and Master Sergeant John ‘Viper’ Dunlop continued to scan the surrounding terrain.

  Kalinski removed the debris covering Rivera’s legs. The right leg below the knee was in tatters, bone protruding through his shredded desert cammies, his foot at an odd angle. “Shit, Mace, we got a severed artery here.” Blood was also pouring from a wound above the left knee. “Matty,” Kalinski yelled, “Call for a CASEVAC helo, now!”

  Kalinski’s words sounded as though he was speaking on a tin can telephone, but at least Mason could still hear them. As soon as he saw the spurts of bright red blood coming from Rivera’s right leg, his hand went straight for one of his own tourniquets (a move he’d practiced until it was automatic). He squeezed in alongside Kalinski. “I got this, Ski.”

  Kalinski backed out and grabbed his bag containing a well-equipped medical kit. Mason deftly applied the tourniquet a few inches above the right knee. He used a tourniquet from Rivera’s tactical vest to stem the flow of darker venous blood pouring from the left leg. Kalinski gently slapped Rivera’s face. “Buddy, can you hear me? Rivera, can you hear me?” He conducted a quick check of Rivera’s vital signs. “He’s unconscious. Help me get him out.”

  Once they’d carefully extracted Rivera, Kalinski immediately got a Hextend IV started. “Hey, Ding”—Mason gently shook Rivera’s shoulder—“can you hear me?”

  Rivera’s fingers twitched.

  Mason screwed up his eyes. “He’s been bleeding for what, thirty maybe forty seconds, Ski? Assuming the bleed out didn’t start until you removed the crap covering his legs—” he checked his watch—“he could already have lost twenty-five percent of his blood volume.”

  “It’s more likely coming from the narrower tibial arteries,” Kalinski replied, “but the Hextend should buy some time.” He pulled a pair of surgical scissors from the front of his tac vest and cut away Rivera’s camouflage trousers. “I’m also giving him a ketamine shot to boost his BP . . . this leg needs attention now.” Kalinski dove back into his pack for some wound dressings, bandages, and a zip lock bag containing antibiotic beads strung on surgical thread. He delved once more into the medical bag and brought out a splint made from thin strips of aluminum in a padded foam casing which he manipulated into a curved shape. He laid the items within easy reach. “OK, Mace, hold him steady—this is gonna hurt.”

  Mason cradled Rivera’s head. Kalinski nodded to Mason, took a deep breath and manipulated Rivera’s lower right leg to bring the shattered ends of the bones closer together.

  Rivera uttered a low moan, opened his eyes and stared deep into Mason’s. Mason squeezed Rivera’s hand. “It’s OK, buddy. You’re safe. I got you.”

  After irrigating the tattered flesh with a weak saline solution, Kalinski arranged the beads around the broken bones, then stuffed lengths of gauze into the void space. Once the wound cavity was filled, he applied a large Combat Gauze pad and secured it firmly in place. Kalinski checked Rivera’s pulse before packing the deep cut above Rivera’s left knee and covering it with a pressure bandage. Finally, he slid the splint under and around Rivera’s broken shin bones and bandaged it in place. Shuffling around on his knees, he filled a syringe and injected an antibiotic through the catheter in Rivera’s arm. With a huge sigh, he sat back on his heels and dragged a sleeve across his brow.

  Mason nodded toward the vehicle where Lowell was crawling out of the wreck.

  Kalinski jumped to his feet. “Do a blood sweep for other injuries.”

  Mason undid the elasticized cummerbund underneath the vest, popped a couple of quick release buckles, and unfolded it away from Rivera’s body. He performed the blood sweep by gently sliding his hands underneath the casualty and then inspecting them for signs of blood. There were several small wounds on Rivera’s arms, but none that needed urgent attention.

  Kalinski assisted Lowell to a sitting position. “Let me get a look at that head lac, Kage.”

  Lowell removed his helmet. Although he had applied a dressing to the cut above his eye, blood was now seeping through so Kalinski grabbed a new bandage and secured it on top of the first one. He performed a cursory examination of the eyes, but when he began checking the limbs for signs of injury Lowell batted him away.

  “It’s just blood, Doc, not guts.” He replaced his helmet. “Go take care of Ding.”

  Kalinski returned to Rivera, dropped to his knees and slowly began to loosen the tourniquet on the left thigh, watching for any fresh bleeding at the wound site. There was none so he completely removed the tourniquet. The Combat Gauze and pressure bandage had stemmed the venous blood flow. He turned to the right leg and started to loosen the tourniquet there. At the first lessening of tension, the blood began oozing.

  “Shit.” He retightened the strap.

  Rivera’s eyes opened and he feebly flicked his tongue over his blue-tinged lips; his glazed stare appeared fixed on something over Mason’s shoulder.

  Kalinski checked Rivera’s vitals again. “We’re going to lose him if we don’t get him out of here, fast.” He tossed a small packet to Mason. “Cover him with the heat blanket. Hypothermia will interfere with the blood clotting. God knows, he’s lost enough already . . . Matty, where’s that goddam helo?”

  “Helo’s eight klicks out,” Matty shouted back.

  Mason broke out the disposable thermal blanket that activated as soon as he unfolded it. Kalinski, meanwhile, made ready the folding stretcher for transporting Rivera to the incoming helicopter.

  Mason turned toward the familiar whoop-whoop of the Pave Hawk’s rotors. Matty threw a colored smoke grenade to mark the clear landing zone Dunlop had swept for IEDs. The helicopter landed and two men jumped out. One ran over to the waiting group. The other stood guard by the open side door.

  Kalinski rattled off Rivera’s injuries to the Air Force Pararescue specialist while handing over a short written report on a check-box form. With a man at each corner, they carried the stretcher to the waiting transport; each man hunched over to avoid the dust stirred up by the downwash of the helicopter blades. They slid the litter along the floor of the aircraft.

  Kalinski waved away Lowell’s protest at being told he needed stitches and an X-ray. He told him to climb into the helicopter. Lowell obeyed, still grumbling, but stopped to place his hand on Rivera’s chest for a second before settling into a flight seat. The helo powered up and Kalinski leaned over Rivera and said a few words. Matty placed his hand over Rivera’s heart, Dunlop did the same then they both stepped aside for Mason who clasped his buddy’s hand. He swore he saw the faintest flicker of a smile from Rivera, but the pounding in Mason’s head and the mist fogging his vision may have distorted the image. Rivera’s eyelids fluttered and his lips moved. Mason bent to catch Rivera’s words, but the noise from the rotors drowned them out, so he kissed Rivera on the forehead and slowly backed away from the helicopter. A tattooed forearm that read: ‘That others may live’ slid the door shut.

  Kalinski placed his hand on Mason’s shoulder and l
eaned over to shout in his ear. “That ankle OK, Mace?”