Honor Courage Commitment

by Jordan Danzig

  “About a mile.”

  “A mile in all, or a mile there and a mile back?”

  “A straight mile. Out under the freeway to the helo pad. Raul’s coming to pick us up in twenty minutes.”

  They would start down an asphalt road toward the ocean, then turn off and follow a dirt track out to the landing pad Rivera mentioned. At least I’ll have the sea breeze to keep me cool.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  She replied with a double thumbs up.

  “You set the pace,” he said. “I’ll match you.”

  Zanna set off at an easy jog, mindful of Rivera’s leg. He was about twenty weeks into rehab and walking well without any support now, although his slight limp became accentuated when he ran.

  “Can I suggest something?” she asked without stopping.

  He glanced at her and chucked his chin.

  “Don’t think about your leg. Don’t dwell on the fact that it might hurt. Run as if it doesn’t.”

  His limp became more pronounced for a few strides then she swore it diminished to less than before she brought it up.

  “Better?”

  He nodded and picked up the pace. He continued to pick it up at regular intervals, and Zanna managed to stay with him. However, she was relieved to see the landing pad when they rounded a bend in the dirt road.

  Coming to a stop, Rivera checked his watch.

  Zanna gasped the words out. “How . . . long?”

  He paced around, warming down, barely out of breath. “Almost nine minutes.”

  “Is that good?”

  “You can do better than that.”

  “You’re the—” Raul’s words echoed in her head. “What time should I be aiming for?”

  “How old are you?”

  Zanna placed one hand over her mouth and fanned herself with the other. “Why, sir, you’re not supposed to ask a lady that question.” Bingo! The crooked smile.

  “If I don’t know how old you are, I can’t tell you what time you should be aiming for—according to the Marine Corps PFT scores.”

  “PFT?”

  “Physical Fitness Test. We get tested every six months to make sure we’re not turning into couch potatoes.”

  “I bet you struggle to pass that test.”

  He grinned and shrugged.

  God, I love your smile. “If I’m twenty-six, what time should I be looking at?”

  “For the female top score in the three-mile run, you’d have to crack twenty-one minutes.”

  He says we ran a mile in nine minutes, so by his reckoning, I should have done it in seven. “What about men? What’s your top score?”

  “Three miles in eighteen minutes.”

  “And, you run it in?”

  “I usually clock around the eighteen.”

  That’s six minutes a mile. Three minutes off what we ran. Even with his leg, he could have run way better than he did. He didn’t run me into the ground, he ran with me, getting me to work harder than I wanted to . . . Go on, risk it. “What would you have run today without me?”

  “Seven maybe. That’s only over the mile, though. Doubt I could have done the three.”

  Good Lord, an admission of fallibility! As nonchalantly as she could muster, she asked if he’d like to do it again sometime.

  “Tomorrow? Same time?”

  Zanna’s heart soared. She was seeing him less often now. He’d been placed on TLD—Temporary Light Duty—with a review from the Medical Evaluation Board due in August. They would decide if he was able to return to duty, or whether he was not fit to continue in service and should be separated out from The Corps. He’d left the Rehab Wing and was, for the time being, bunking in the Bachelor Enlisted Quarters on the base. But according to Raul, Rivera couldn’t wait to get back to his own place in the hills of Temecula.

  * * *

  They ran together six times over the next two weeks. Rivera was stronger each time out, but Zanna knew he was still running with her, getting her times better. On the sixth run, Rivera seemed to be experiencing some discomfort in his upper body. She asked if he was feeling OK and would he prefer a swim that day.

  “Yeah, it’s nothing. I’ve just had a small procedure on my chest and I’m supposed to stay out of the water for a few days until it heals.”

  At the end of the run while Rivera was performing warm-down stretches he said, “I’ll be discharged from the hospital soon.”

  Is this it? Is he finally going to say something? “Yes. I can’t believe how quickly the time has flown”—If he won’t say it, I will—“I’ll miss you, you know.”

  There was no reaction, other than a quiet comment. “I can’t imagine why.”

  “For all your innate charm.” She smiled at him.

  He retied his bootlaces. “I’m going to run back in today. You coming?”

  Zanna blinked back the tears and nodded. Rivera set off and pretty soon left her behind as he picked up the pace to one that she could not match.

  22

  The Chinook’s idling rotors stirred up lazy eddies of the ubiquitous ‘moon dust’. Amanda had spent the time on this trip to FOB Bulldog not only observing but also helping the busy Forward Surgical Team—and waiting to hear if Angel was back from his current patrol. She hadn’t even entertained the thought that he might not be here. But why should he have been? He didn’t know I was coming. Would it have made any difference if he had?

  She was dislodged from her reverie by Mason running up to her. A huge grin split his rugged face. “Angel’s just radioed to say he’s under ten minutes out and he’s asking if you can wait.”

  Amanda’s heart lurched. She shot a questioning look at Gant.

  “That helo is leaving in fifteen,” he said.

  They all turned at the whoop-whoop-whoop made by an incoming helicopter, and Amanda’s heart set off once more, making her light-headed. Or was it the thought of seeing him again? He was asking her to wait for him! What does he want?

  A voice from behind her shouted, “They’ve got ANA casualties on board!”

  Two men jumped into an ambulance and raced over to the landing zone. Several men got out of the aircraft and helped transfer the injured into the vehicle. The ambulance drove back to the FST and the casualties taken inside. Through the settling dust, a group of men walked toward her laughing and chatting. Even though they were all in full battle rattle, a frisson of excitement shot through Amanda when she discerned Angel from his height.

  How do they find so much to laugh about out here?

  They changed direction when someone shouted to them, but two men peeled away and continued heading for Amanda. Angel stopped in front of her and smiled. A trickle of blood ran from somewhere above his left ear.

  “Are you OK?” she asked, reaching for his face.

  “Shit, looks like you gotta piece of shrapnel stuck in your Kevlar,” O’Malley said.

  Laughing, Angel put his hand up to his helmet. “I thought I banged my head on something back there.” He tugged at the small lump of metal.

  “Don’t touch it!” Gant shouted.

  The thin triangular piece came away in Angel’s fingertips. He examined the fragment, then with a quizzical expression looked from Gant to Amanda. His eyes rolled upwards, he dropped to his knees and toppled sideways into the dirt.

  “C’mon, brah. Now, that ain’t funny,” O’Malley said, pushing the toe of his boot at Angel’s inert body.

  Gant was already on his knees, accessing the Individual First Aid Kit attached to Angel’s body armor. A halo of blood soaked into the dirt around Angel’s head.

  Amanda made sure her voice was steady, but she was shaking all over. “What do you want me to do, Will?” This cannot be happening. It can’t . . . it can’t. Not to him! She was not certain if her legs gave way or she chose to kneel by Angel’s side.

  Gant handed Amanda the sealed Trauma Pack from Angel’s IFAK and told her to open it.

  “Fig, remove his flak,” Gant said.

  He’s stil
l wearing that flower; he’s taped it in place!

  O’Malley dropped to one knee, lifted a Velcroed flap at the top of the vest and tugged the quick-release ripcord. The vest immediately fell into two pieces, which he removed from Angel’s body. “He didn’t say he was hurt and I guess with all the commotion over the wounded ANA no one noticed it.”

  Amanda attempted a smile of reassurance, but she was choking back her own tears, so she just nodded her head in sympathy.

  “OK, let’s see what we’ve got here,” Gant said. He undid the clip and gingerly removed Angel’s helmet.

  Amanda breathed a sigh in unison with Gant when no gray matter came away with the helmet or appeared to be leaking from the wound in Angel’s skull.

  Gant held out his hand without looking at Amanda. “Gauze.”

  She handed him one of appropriate size and he gave her Angel’s sunglasses, which he’d removed by cutting the elasticized retainer strap.

  Mason arrived with the wheeled stretcher he’d run to fetch.

  Gant nodded his thanks. “Wilks, apply pressure to this dressing.”

  Amanda looked wild-eyed at the Marines. “Why didn’t he know he was injured?”

  Mason answered. “In the heat of battle, you sometimes just don’t feel the pain. I took a bullet in my arm one time and didn’t realize until the firefight was over and the adrenaline rush wore off.”

  Angel’s eyes flickered and he managed a weak smile. “You got all my eye pro now. What next?” he whispered.

  “You!” Amanda said, tears pouring down her cheeks. You to get up and walk away.

  Angel’s breathing became shallow. He struggled to speak. “Tell Galena . . . .” He mumbled something incoherent, his eyes closed and his body went limp.

  Gant felt for a neck pulse. “Get him on the gurney and inside. Now!”

  Mason and O’Malley lifted Angel onto the stretcher cart. O’Malley took Angel’s hand in his and ran alongside while Mason steered for the FST. Gant picked up Angel’s rifle and flak and raced after them.

  Amanda stared at the retreating group in a daze. How can this wonderful man, so full of life, so inspiring, and so charismatic that I traveled halfway across the world to meet him again, now be lying dead in some sodding dusty, stinking hell-hole in the Middle East! She didn’t want to follow. She didn’t want to see him dead, but she had to see him.

  She entered the trauma center as Wallace stepped up to examine Angel. Two other teams were working with a practiced calm on the two injured Afghan soldiers.

  Gant matter-of-factly reeled off his findings. “Query secondary blast injury/blunt trauma to left temporal bone.” He swallowed. “Conscious, mobile, and coherent on arrival. Collapsed about two minutes ago. No breath sounds . . . No pulse.”

  Mason and O’Malley nervously watched on. Wallace unslung his stethoscope and checked Angel’s vital signs.

  “No radial. Faint carotid.” He called over his shoulder. “Tanaka on deck!”

  The adrenaline surge almost took Amanda off her feet. He’s still alive!

  Wallace was issuing instructions to his staff. “Hextend, 500-ml IV bolus.”

  While a nurse administered the fluids, Gant scrubbed up.

  Tanaka checked Angel’s dog tags. In a curt tone, she addressed Mason. “Is he definitely B Pos?”

  “One hundred percent,” he replied.

  Amanda placed both hands over her mouth. Please save him. Please. Please!

  Tanaka asked a nurse to bring two units of B Positive then addressed Gant, now standing opposite her on the other side of the gurney. “OK, Commander, let’s get him tubed and bagged.” She injected a local anesthetic and Gant readied the intubation kit.

  Once the endotracheal tube was in place, Gant attached a balloon-like device and started forcing air into Angel’s lungs; controlling the rate at which he breathed. He gestured to a member of Tanaka’s team. “Harper, take over. Bring him to ten breaths per minute and monitor his pupils. If they bilaterally dilate, increase to twenty breaths per minute. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tanaka turned her attention to Angel’s wound, easing away the gauze pad. She sucked air through her teeth. Gant carefully irrigated the wound. Tanaka selected a scalpel and some forceps and inspected the injury.

  “How’s it looking, Jan?” Gant asked.

  Amanda was grateful he’d asked the question she didn’t dare to.

  “Pretty good,” Tanaka said. “Wound looks clean. Doesn’t appear to be any fragments of metal, material or bone left in there. No laceration to the brain itself, but swelling has started. Mannitol?”

  “No,” said Gant. “Let’s try hyperventilation first.”

  O’Malley nudged Amanda. “Do you know what the hell they’re talking about?”

  Amanda nodded. “Mannitol is a drug used to control the rapid-onset swelling of the brain.”

  “So why isn’t the commander using it?” Mason asked.

  “He’s going to attempt to artificially increase Angel’s breathing rate in order to saturate the brain with oxygenated blood in order to stabilize the rising intercranial pressure.”

  O’Malley nodded at her explanation but kept his gaze on Angel.

  Harper had increased the rate at which he was squeezing on the bag.

  Gant checked Angel’s pupils. “Damn, pupils are dilated. I was hoping we were going to avoid that.”

  “I believe you prefer sodium thiopental, Will,” Wallace said.

  Gant nodded. “In my experience, it’s superior in reducing intracranial pressure. Hook him up to the ventilator and we’ll monitor him on the EEG here until we’re ready to leave.” He injected Angel with a small syringe.

  O’Malley nudged Amanda again.

  “The commander’s injected a test dose to check for any adverse respiratory problems and then Captain Dubois can prepare the main dose of anesthesia.”

  “Thanks . . . Doc,” O’Malley said.

  Gant dressed and bandaged the wound, while Dubois readied the drugs.

  “They’re going to put Angel into a medically induced coma,” Amanda said.

  “Shit,” O’Malley said.

  “They’ll administer a barbiturate that narrows the blood vessels in the skull and reduces the pressure between the brain and skull itself. This procedure is said to decrease the electrical activity in the brain, and lessen its demand for oxygen and glucose.” Amanda made a little noise and O’Malley hooked her hand under his arm. Steadied by his comforting gesture, she continued. “If they can relieve the swelling, some, or even all, of any potential brain damage may be averted.”

  “Holy shit,” O’Malley said.

  Amanda dug her fingers into O’Malley’s arm as the drug was administered. Angel was already unconscious, but it seemed that his body relaxed even more as the drug quickly entered his system.