Air being forced into the vein…could be deadly. “I’m going to need you to make a fist,” he shouted, preparing an IV needle as he pulled Nick’s right arm up.
He saw his friend’s lips move, leaned down closer to hear him as the sergeant repeated the words. “You been…tested for clap lately, mate?”
A grin, white teeth showing against the dark facepaint.
Harry laughed, his hand closing over Nick’s, forcing his fingers into a clenched fist as he stabbed the needle into the prominently exposed vein just inside the elbow. “You know it, pal. Came back positive.”
He took the length of tubing in his hand, leaned back against the cabin door, feeling the vibrations of the helicopter pulse through his body as he prepared a second needle. For himself.
Artery to vein, that was the most common way of performing an arm-to-arm transfusion, a procedure that was—dicey, at best.
Taking a deep breath, Harry extended his left arm so that his forearm rested across his knee, pushing the needle slowly into his wrist until it hit the radial artery. Straight in.
You could always tell when you were there, the arterial pressure was so strong. He winced, looking down in the darkness as his blood began to fill the needle.
Death. A strange chill ran through his body, and he glanced up—over to where Ali lay on the stretcher.
Looked over in time to see the PJ stripping off his blood-drenched gloves. Reaching up with a reverential hand, his trembling fingers brushing across the boy’s face.
Closing those once-bright eyes for the last time. A final sleep.
“You’ll take us to mother?” He remembered his own reply—words with no meaning, assurances that had proven impossible to keep.
Betrayed, at the end.
Dear God, what had he done? Harry could hear Layla sobbing, the sound of a mother weeping for her child. No comfort.
A woman who had tried to help them and had lost everything in the process. A life destroyed.
What was done…was done. What had been taken, could never be returned. Move on.
His face contorted in anger, wrestling with the emotion as he reached over with his free hand, attaching the IV tube—watching as his own blood began to fill the line, pumping into his friend’s veins. As the Black Hawk swept out over the Mediterranean.
That others may live…
2:04 A.M.
The USS Iwo Jima
Waiting. She’d learned in Afghanistan that waiting was always the worst of it, Iraida thought, rain pelting her upturned face as she stood there on the Iwo’s flight deck. Waiting to see if your intel was solid, waiting to see if all your people made it back. Gambling with people’s lives.
Afghan culture being what it was, she’d spent most of her time back in Kandahar or at one of the Forward Operating Bases, but she’d preferred being out there—beyond the wire.
Anything to avoid the waiting.
The MH-60K Black Hawk had just settled down, deck crew rushing forward to lash its wheels down to the rolling deck even before the rotors had stopped turning. No one was taking chances on it going over the side.
The cabin slid open as she hurried toward the helicopter, the Night Stalker crew chiefs emerging first, carrying a litter, a tarpaulin covering the body of the man they bore.
It was one of the Brits, she realized as they carried him past her. Crawford. He grinned up at her, blinking through the rain, moving his right hand to offer a mock salute.
And then she saw Harry, standing there by the helicopter, the small form of a child cradled in his arms.
Just standing there, the rain soaking his jet-black hair, running down his cheeks in rivulets. Clinging to the rough stubble of his beard.
The heavens cried.
Iraida started to move toward him, but something in his eyes made her pause. Something that had changed in the months since she had last seen his face.
A dark foreboding. Despair.
The world seemed to shrink around them, the noise of the flight deck—of the Sikorsky—fading away. Just the two of them in that moment, his eyes never leaving hers. A look of reproach. Of condemnation.
His words replaying themselves through her mind, a haunting refrain.
“You told her that if she was compromised, we would ensure the safety of her children. You made a promise you couldn’t keep.”
A promise that no one had been able to keep in the end, she thought, forcing herself to look away from the lifeless body of the child in his arms. She still had a job to do, an asset to debrief.
Forgiveness would have to wait for another time.
A time that, as she felt his gaze on her, she doubted would ever come.
But the war went on.
7:32 A.M. Local Time, July 25 th
The USS Iwo Jima
The storm had passed the previous day, Harry thought, standing on the deck of the amphibious assault ship as the sun rose over the Mediterranean, gazing out over the rest of the expeditionary strike group.
The roiling wake of the USS Cole glistened in the morning sun, maybe a thousand meters off the Iwo’s starboard bow. It was the first time the Cole had returned to the Middle East since the bombing six years earlier in Aden that had claimed the lives of seventeen of its sailors.
Six years. And how the world had changed in that brief span of time. The years of war. How he had changed.
He took another sip of the coffee in his battered old thermos, standing there looking out at the sea—the coastline of Lebanon far over the horizon to the east.
Another day, maybe two—and he’d be back in Iraq. Back to the war. Nick was still convalescing in the Iwo’s sick bay, though they were already prepping him for transport to the UK. To the care of his wife.
He was going to pull through fine.
Fine. Harry looked down at his hands, as if he could still feel the weight of the child resting in his arms. Dead weight.
He’d lost men before, in the years since 9/11—he knew those regrets. But this was different, somehow.
Layla Massoud had spent the day since her rescue—since her son’s death—in a nearly catatonic state, making debrief impossible. Any intel she’d had for them…well, actionable intel was a perishable commodity.
Already largely worthless.
She’d be taken back to the States along with her daughter—given a new identity. In a new land.
A fresh start, in exchange for all that she had lost. Small consolation.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there when he heard footsteps on the deck behind him. Felt her presence, notes of jasmine mixing with the salt sea air.
It was a scent he remembered well, from better days. He didn’t turn, just stood there. Looking out to sea.
“Your orders came through,” she announced. No greeting—they had moved past that long ago. “A helicopter will be here to pick you up within the next two hours, take you off the ship and back to Iraq. And I have a sat call for you.”
He looked back at that, his eyes coming to rest on her face. She was a good officer, always had been—one of the best to come out of the Farm.
And all that…didn’t change a thing.
“Who?” he asked, shelving the feelings. Time enough for them another day.
“It’s from Basra. A Sergeant Major Juan Delgado, United States Army.”
He forced a smile to his face, reaching out as she placed the satphone in his hand. “Good to hear from you, Juan. Don’t tell me you miss me already.”
There was a brief pause before the Army Ranger’s voice came back over the connection. “Like a bad case of shingles, son,” Delgado responded with a laugh. “But I need you back in-country most ricky-tick. We’ve picked up credible intel on the location of Abu al-Mawt.”
Harry looked out at the waters of the Mediterranean, feeling a chill wash over his body as the Ranger kept speaking.
Abu al-Mawt. The Father of Death…
The End
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Acknowledgements
As ever, as I come to the close of another Shadow Warriors story (the fifth title now in the series), I find myself indebted to the myriad of folks who have offered advice and their expertise to help keep me on the straight and narrow.
First and foremost, to my cover artist, Louis Vaney, an unbelievably talented guy who continues to outdo himself with each successive cover.
To the handful of extremely knowledgeable people who lent their knowledge and life experience to honing the story. My friend Sol, of Her Majesty’s Royal Engineers, for his endless notes on military parlance and communications protocols.
My friend Philip Smyth of Jihadology.net for his invaluable insight into Lebanon and the culture and tactics of Hezbollah.
And to my friend Lieutenant Colonel Steven Todd for his insight on the Black Hawk and the rest of my aviator friends at PGI-Aviation LLC, without whose expertise Nichols & Co. would still be awaiting extraction from Al Dwair.
To a pair of authors, Ian Graham and Andrew Scorah, who were willing to break from their own busy writing schedules to look over the manuscript and provide feedback
To the members of the LODESTONE beta reading team, for their diligence in sifting out typos and logic errors, and providing overall constructive criticism on the story: Paula Tyler, T.J. Lowther, Mary Thompson, Tyler Donoghue, Raymond & Mariah Keyrouz, and Barry Taylor.
And last but far from least, to my readers, whose love of Nichols and the rest of the Shadow Warriors keeps me motivated on a daily basis.
God bless you all and may God bless America.
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LODESTONE: A Shadow Warriors Novella Page 8