by Aiden Bates
The sound of flesh hitting flesh rang out through the air, even louder than the approaching choppers. "Shut up," Floyd spat.
A gun blast rang out, and Toledano reappeared. "I was sick of listening to that guy anyway," he said.
Trent tried to laugh, but he passed out instead.
Chapter Eighteen
Mal sat down in front of DeWitt's laptop. DeWitt had gotten himself cleaned up and even put on a set of fatigues. Mal couldn't blame him. He wouldn't want his subordinates to see he'd gotten beat up by a pregnant omega, after all. "Alright. Are you ready for me to show you where those orders came from?"
"You already know?" DeWitt leaned forward with his knuckles on the table.
"Well, I already know they didn't come from the Navy." Mal pointed to a section of text in the part of the header that most email services hid. "See this part? It's not military at all. It's commercial."
DeWitt dropped his jaw. He closed it. "Commercial like, someone got a Google account? Because that does happen." He glared at Mal. "People are worried about spies and hackers."
"And they should be." Mal shrugged. "It's not exactly insulting, you know. But that's not what's going on here. This is something else entirely. I'll look into which specific company this is, but it's not the kind of email the general public just signs up for." He saw the confused look on DeWitt's face. "It's not like an email service. It's more like your corporate account. "
"So like my Navy email but in the private sector. Good, good. Okay." He pointed at the screen. "Why would a private corporation want to put Navy SEALs in harm's way?"
Mal sighed. "There are so many reasons. First of all, it might not be a private corporation. It might be someone who works for the company, who is a White Dawn member. It might be someone who works for the company, who is deeply opposed to White Dawn and has some screwed up ideas about SEALs and human lives. It might be someone who wants to market something using the SEAL brand. It might be someone who wants to start an incident between America and France, because that's never happened before."
"All right, all right, I get that." DeWitt stepped back and rubbed at his face. "I can't ever present this to command."
"Why not?" Chief had his coffee now, which improved his mood significantly.
"Because of the source." DeWitt gestured to Mal. "He is who he is. I can't tell them I let him touch my laptop, for crying out loud. And I'm absolutely not telling them Kelly told him where they were going. All things considered, that might be what keeps those men alive."
Mal smiled, just a little. It was good to get that kind of vindication once in a while. "Do you want the new intel to come from France? Spain? Italy? Her Majesty's Secret Service? The Pope?" He cracked his knuckles. "Say the word and I'll make a foolproof message even the originating agency wouldn't recognize as fake."
Chief frowned at Mal. "That's very dishonest."
Mal nodded. "I know. I'm not a good man."
"Have it come from Italy," DeWitt told him. When Chief gaped at him in outrage, DeWitt spread his hands wide. "Look. We have to get to those men. We have no way of ordering them to fall back. The only thing we can do is to send in a rescue mission."
Mal took a deep breath. "I want to go along."
DeWitt gave him a measuring look. "Fine."
Mal jumped up. "Excellent. I'll get my things.”
"You're kidding me!" Chief yelped. "The man is four months pregnant! He can't go jumping out of a helicopter! No doctor in his right mind would allow that."
"Mal, don't be daft. You can't go," Morna scowled. "Trent will shoot you on sight if he sees you jumping into that kind of firefight."
DeWitt held up a hand. "Mal can come along — as a corpsman. Full armor, but he's coming along to save lives. Kelly will shoot me if I'm putting Mal here in the line of fire, and we don't actually have corpsmen in this unit. It's like the thing with the computers." He looked over at Chief. "I wouldn't want to put you in harm's way, but in this case, it's a job we're actually going to need. I've been given to understand that you're actually very, very good at it and if we had eight SEALs going up against three hundred terrorists, they're going to need lifesaving treatment."
Mal took a deep breath. He still felt like this was another "smother the pregnant guy" thing, but DeWitt was right. They didn't have any medical personnel with them, and they were going to need them. "I'm in." He stood up straighter. "Do we have helicopters?"
"Give me about an hour." DeWitt set his jaw.
An hour later, Mal was cleverly disguised as a Navy corpsman, complete with body armor. He was in a van with Morna, Master Chief Boone, Lt. DeWitt, and six other SEALs on their way to the Toulon navy yard.
The French, who owned Corsica, turned out to be very willing to participate in the rescue mission when they found out what was going on. When they learned White Dawn was holding some sick and twisted sort of jamboree in their territory, they wanted it shut down, and they didn't care who did it. Ordinarily they'd have been touchier about having the Americans take on a job like that without so much as a by your leave, but they'd already invited the Americans to help deal with ISIS cells.
They contributed four evacuation helicopters and pilots. Mal got to fly in the first one. He didn't often get to use proper medical equipment. He knew how, of course, but more often than not he was off in the bush somewhere trying to keep people alive until they could get to a real professional.
The ride out to Corsica took about an hour. Mal had a helmet with a radio in it. It was the only way they could talk to each other inside the helicopter. "We've had an explosion on Corsica," the pilot told him and Chief, in French. "Several, in fact."
Chief winced. "Do you think they blew up the island? Was that the entertainment they mentioned?"
Mal shook his head. "No. I think Trent would have looked at the odds and tried to find a way of evening those odds." He turned to the pilot. "That's where we'll find them."
Chief glared at him. "Mind yourself, Corpsman." Then Chief turned his head to the pilot. "Aim for the site of the explosions."
The pilot chuckled and did as he was told.
When the pilot brought the bird close to ground level, all that remained of the site was ruins. There were a few prominent blast sites. Mal's practiced eye could see the origin point of each blast, and the mass of debris and bodies that had spread out from each told him they'd been deliberate. That gave him hope. He let his eyes trail away from those gruesome reminders to an area where the bomb sites could be seen, but not felt.
"There!" he exclaimed. He pointed. He could see a cluster of men in SEAL uniforms, mostly crumpled in heaps. Only Floyd and Toledano still stood and fired.
Most of the White Dawn members that could be seen were dead. A few staggered around and tried to fight, but Floyd and Toledano picked them off.
Chief grabbed his shotgun and jumped out of the chopper as soon as he could do so without damaging himself. He came up firing, taking out White Dawn members until all that remained were SEALs and corpses.
"Come and get 'em, Corpsman!" he bellowed.
Mal barely needed to be told. He hopped down onto the soil with his official corpsman's bag and ran over to the men he'd gotten to know over the past few months. Even now, despite his terror for Trent, his brain flipped from search to triage.
There were six wounded out of a crew of eight. None were fatal, or at least none had become fatal yet. Robson's leg had been shattered by a bullet. Tinker had a bullet in his arm. Fitzpatrick's arm wound looked worse, but it had been bandaged. Hopper had a leg wound someone had put a tourniquet on, but hopefully they could save the leg.
The two most serious injuries had come from knives, not guns. Iniguez had a deep stab wound to his back. It looked like a kidney might have been involved. His skin was gray, but he was breathing. He'd need a lot of blood once they got to Toulon, but someone had packed the injury with gauze to try to slow the bleeding on the fly. It had been better than nothing, in an emergency.
And then
there was Trent. Someone had slashed him across the belly. Mal could see his guts, although they weren't spilling out. He, too, had lost a lot of blood. The wound must have happened recently, because no one had tried to bandage it. Trent was a popular guy. They'd have bandaged him if there was time.
Mal stroked his face with his hand, just once, and then he got down to work. The other SEALs were waiting for orders. Mal was ready to give them. "I need six stretchers. Now, please. Morna, help me hold him down." He dropped to his knees to irrigate the wound. There were enough problems with an abdominal wound like this. Trent didn't need an infection in there as well.
Then, he slapped some butterfly bandages on the cut. It wasn't enough. He should get stitches, but he could get stitches after he'd had scans to make sure nothing internal had been damaged. Mal put a proper bandage over the butterflies and signaled for a couple of SEALs to help him lift Trent onto a stretcher. He strapped him down good and tight. "Load him into a bird, please." The pilot would secure him.
He bandaged Iniguez. He was concerned about Iniguez' kidney, but he couldn't do anything for him in a field filled with dirt and corpses. Iniguez, too, got strapped down and brought to the same bird as Trent.
That helicopter took off. There was only room for two stretchers in there, so it made sense. Mal still hated to see it go. He couldn't leave, though. There were still four more wounded who needed him.
Next, he turned his attention to Hopper. Whoever had done the tourniquet knew what they were doing, but tourniquets were tricky business. Mal turned to Floyd. "How long ago was this put on?"
Floyd jumped when Mal spoke. "Sorry. Maybe half an hour ago?"
Mal hummed. "I don't like it. We'll see how it goes, though. He's got a good pulse, and the leg's cool but not cold." He checked the time and wrote the time Floyd had given him on Hopper's leg. When he signaled for a stretcher, one was brought over, and they carefully strapped Hopper onto it. "I'm concerned about the leg, honestly. But if they get him into surgery it should be okay. Load him into the next bird and get him out of here, yeah?"
Floyd saluted, possibly without thinking of it, and followed his buddy into the helicopter. Mal didn't think about it but followed the chain of injuries to the next victim. Robson's face was gray with pain, but he didn't say anything.
Mal examined the leg. "I don't need an X-ray to tell you it's in a bad way." He took a deep breath. "You're going to need surgery to get it set, and I can't do that for you. But someone in Toulon surely can."
Robson nodded slowly. "You're not going to let them put me on that stretcher, are you?"
Mal sighed. "It's what's best for you right now, but here." He splinted the leg, as thoroughly as his kit would allow. "Let them carry you on and off. Do not put any weight on this leg. And I mean it. You'll be a stork even to take a piss, okay?"
Robson chuckled. "Got it, Corpsman. Thank you."
Mal moved on to Fitzpatrick. His arm was bandaged, but badly — like someone had moved as quickly as possible. Mal wasn't in a position to judge. He'd half-assed things before too. The time for precision was not when bullets were flying. "I'm going to take this off and see what we're dealing with. Okay?"
Fitzpatrick let it happen. He didn't make any sounds as Mal pulled the bloody, filthy bandage away, but his forehead broke out in a sweat.
Mal winced when he saw the arm underneath. "Okay. This isn't pretty. I'd say there's definitely muscle involvement. Can you move it?"
"Not without it hurting like a bitch." Fitzpatrick breathed out, slowly. "It doesn't tickle."
"No, I can't imagine it does." He licked his lips. "I'm not sure about any tendons, but we wouldn't know for sure for a little while anyway. I'm going to clean it out and put a few stitches in. Then you can go have a seat on the bird, yeah?"
Fitzpatrick nodded again, and Mal got to work. The wound was dirty, and Mal wrote up a note encouraging an antibiotic prescription. Then he moved on to Tinker.
Tinker raised an eyebrow at him. "It's a flesh wound."
Mal scoffed. "There's a bullet in your arm. Actual bullet. Actual arm. I can see it."
Tinker rolled his arm. "Still a flesh wound."
"I'm guessing you'd rather have a real doctor take care of it?"
"They're busy." Tinker waved a hand toward the remaining choppers. "Got tweezers."
"Get out of here, man." Mal fixed him up with a sling and a bandage and wrote a note for the hospital explaining his situation. "I'm telling them you don't need any anesthetic, since you think it's just a flesh wound."
"You're a dick." Tinker seemed to be trying not to laugh.
"You know it." Mal gave him a hand. "Come on. I'll head back to the bird with you."
Mal ran into Chief on the way to the helicopter. "Do you need me for anything else, sir?" It was easy to fall into the habit of calling people “sir,” when everyone else was doing it too.
"No. Get to the hospital on site. They'll know who you are, and they'll let you see Kelly." Chief put a hand on Mal's shoulder. "I'm proud of you. And don’t call me sir."
Mal basked in the unaccustomed praise. He ran for the chopper. He had a boyfriend to see.
~
Trent floated along on various levels of consciousness. Sometimes everything was black, and he didn't notice or feel or hear anything. Sometimes things were a little grayer, and he would remember a voice or a sensation. Sometimes he felt pain ripping through him, but that usually preceded another black and empty period. Sometimes he felt like he was moving while lying still, and that was so disconcerting he'd rather have stayed in the dark and empty place.
Once, and only once, did he think he heard Mal's voice. "I love you." That was all he heard. Trent still couldn't see, and he couldn't hear much beyond that moment. Still, he tried to sit up and follow the voice. Pain tore through him, though, followed by blessed blackness.
When he finally came back to himself, fully back, he almost asked to get sent back to the dark place. Everything hurt. His belly hurt most of all. Mal was the pregnant one, so why should Trent's belly hurt like he'd just had a C-section? His head hurt, and something attached to his face was making his skin itch, right under his nose. Something itched against his leg too, and he didn't like the implications of that.
"Mal?" The word hurt croaking out of his dry mouth. Was that really his voice? He sounded pathetic. He sounded old.
"Calm down, son." Chief put his hand on Trent's shoulder. "You're at Walter Reed. It's going to be your home for a good little while."
Trent frowned. "Walter Reed?" He accepted the ice chips Chief spooned into his mouth. They were the second most beautiful thing he'd ever tasted. "What the Hell, Chief? What happened?"
Chief frowned at him. "What's the last thing you remember?"
Trent frowned. "I've got a few really foggy memories. Before that…" He bit down on his cheek and stopped. He didn't need to hurt himself further. "I remember sitting in the kitchen in Toulon. We were getting an assignment from Lt. DeWitt."
Chief made a face. "Okay. Ah, give me a second." He rubbed at his face. Now that Trent could see a little more clearly, the Master Chief's face had a kind of haggard look to it. That wasn't what Trent expected from his commander. Chief was always well put together. "That was six days ago, Kelly."
Trent tried to jolt upright. Agony in his lower abdomen stopped him. He didn't pass out again. That might have been because Chief blocked him from sitting up, using his arm as a bar.
"For Christ's sake, Kelly, use your noodle. I guess it might be a little scrambled right now. They've got you pumped full of so many painkillers I'm surprised you're not singing Katrina and the Waves tunes." He shook his head. "Do you need a top off?"
"They're not working," Trent gritted out. "They're just making me loopy. I don't like that."
"Naw, you wouldn't, would you?" Chief's look was almost fond. "Anyway. DeWitt got orders telling him to send some men in against an ISIS unit hiding out on Corsica. He put you in charge, even though it seemed a little
odd. You and the other men went out. I wasn't involved with this, he was told to keep it top secret, but I probably wouldn't have seen anything wrong with it at the time given the information we had."
Chief looked out the window for a second and then out into the hallway. He dropped his voice. "You did. You didn't buck or disobey orders. You just sent a text to your boy there. You said you were shipping out on a job in Corsica that 'seemed fishy.'" He snickered. "O'Donnell had no idea what that might mean. To be honest, it could have meant just about anything. He told me later, once things were over, that he even had an odd theory bouncing around in that head of his involving sardine smugglers."