Team Black Sheep

by M. L. Buchman

  4

  Teri paid no attention to the unharmed corporate types streaming out of the office building and onto the big Pave Hawk transports which had landed in the street intersection.

  They loaded her bird with five soldiers in a bay rated for two litters. Four more went to the other bird; no longer her problem.

  No second medic—her choices were limited.

  Soldier One?

  No pulse. No blood pressure. Oxygenation low to near zero.

  Bad signs.

  Temperature actually significantly higher than normal.

  That gave her pause.

  But only for a moment.

  The outdoor temperature here was significantly higher than body temperature. And the sudden transition from the full heat of battle to a stopped heart, meant that the body was no longer able to cool itself by circulating blood and producing sweat.

  This body’s core was superheated to 109.

  She’d need ice packs, shock paddles, units of whole blood, and time.

  Teri had everything but the last.

  Moving on.

  Soldier Two had the three-chevrons-and-a-rocker insignia of a staff sergeant—and a large hole where his brain was supposed to be.

  She rolled him on top of the other one to make some room. They were past caring and she certainly didn’t.

  With a quick glance she assessed the other three soldiers.

  One appeared to be mobile.

  One critical.

  The third, a woman, her dusky skin pale, still sat upright in the cargo bay doorway, her rifle tracking below as they lifted. There was a wide, dark blood stain on her back.

  “You,” she shouted at the mobile one.

  “Doc.”

  “Fine. Doc. Get some pressure on those wounds,” she pointed at the woman. “Then get her stitched up.”

  Teri then turned to the other victim and began her triage inspection.

  5

  Doc? He’d actually introduced himself to a real medic as Doc? He was about the furthest thing there could be from that.

  The woman had hands like nitrile-blue lightning. Between one eyeblink and the next, she’d inspected the grunt—Jethro now out cold with his head bandage dark red—rolled him on his left side for a blood check, then eased him onto his back. All of his wounds were up front—a man who faced the enemy. Too bad he’d faced them for so long.

  Two hundred meters up, the Pave Hawks—filled with the “corporates” he’d nearly died defending but had never even seen—turned for the airport. Get them on a jet and get them home.

  But their own bird and another just like it, surrounded by a cluster of black helicopters, turned south for the coast.

  He glanced at Smith just in time to grab her as she slumped. A moment later and she’d have rolled forward out the cargo door nose-first and gone for a swim in the Niger River along with the West African crocodiles. Even Smith probably couldn’t take them on.

  He hauled her the rest of the way into the cramped cargo bay and laid her on her back.

  “Blood type?” the female medic called out.

  He checked Smith’s dog tag, “Type A positive.”

  “Good. I’ve got some of that. Here,” she tossed over a squishy plastic bag of dark red blood. “Get her tapped and get that into her. Then close those wounds.”

  “Tapped?” He asked, just as a small plastic bag smacked him in the chest. It had a needle in it, like he was supposed to know what to do with that. “How—”

  “No time. I’ve got to save this one.”

  “Jethro.”

  “I’m Teri,” she said without looking up.

  “No. He’s Jethro. I’m Gerrard ‘Low Gear’ ‘Doc’ Carson.”

  She was one cut from completely slicing off Jethro’s shirt—no bullet-proof vests because they’d just been on a friendly training assignment in a non-combative country. She stopped and looked directly at him for the first time. Her face was narrow and fine-featured, a slip of blonde hair poked out of her helmet—and her gaze a laser-intent blue almost as bright as her gloves.

  “What?” Doc looked down to see if he was suddenly bleeding without knowing it.

  “Carson?”

  “Yes, of the incredibly not famous Boston General medical Carsons. Why?”

  “Teri Carson. Of the Alaskan Carsons. Now get her tapped and sealed up, Doc,” she nodded to Smith then refocused on Jethro. The more clothing she cut away, the more blood there was to see. It was going to take a miracle to get him home.

  “Doc” felt pretty damn stupid as a tag at the moment.

  One more glance at Teri as she rolled out a surgical kit with a practiced snap.

  Gerrard was looking for gloves when a pair of nitriles smacked him in the face.

  Teri was looking down, but she might have been smiling.

  He pulled them on—plenty around their house to play with as a kid—and rolled up Smith’s sleeve. Opening the packet for the tap needle he was ready with everything except how to do it.

  “Teri?” If she heard him, she didn’t look up. She had a pair of long-nose forceps plunged deep into Jethro’s shoulder. Even as he watched, she pulled up a bullet which was followed by a fast flow of blood.

  “Shit! Hurry up, Doc. I’m going to need you over here.”

  Doc looked down at Smith’s exposed arm and the needle he was holding. There were iodine swabs in the packet.

  He swabbed her arm for thirty long seconds just like when he donated blood. Then a second swab wipe.

  No tracks. So drugs weren’t unknown Smith’s past.

  Rather than asking for a tourniquet, he pinched the artery on the inside of Smith’s upper arm—just as his mom had when he’d sliced his hand really badly once while slicing a bagel. The vein didn’t exactly bulge in the crook of her elbow, but he could see it.

  “Sorry about this, Smith.”

  Then he took a deep breath and jabbed the needle in.

  6

  Teri couldn’t figure out Doc Carson.

  He fumbled and looked panicked like he didn’t know anything. Then he did the iodine by the book and knew the trick with pinching the brachial artery.

  It was sweet the way he apologized to his girlfriend before he jabbed her with the needle. As if she wasn’t way past feeling it.

  Teri cut down deep enough to find the bleeder in Jethro’s subclavian artery. A stapler and a little backup glue had it pasted back together. No time to deal with the little bleeders, she jammed in a surgical sponge and shifted to the next hole.

  “Here.” She tossed him a fresh package of sponges. “If your girlfriend isn’t bleeding too much when you pull that strap, just shove this in.”

  “Not my girlfriend. We’re fireteam leaders in the same squad is all.”

  “Why not? She’s pretty.” She had the full chest and serious curves that Carsons never developed.

  “Because she’s lethal as hell.”

  Maybe he was right. Even passed out cold and pale from blood loss she looked extremely determined.

  Though in all that dark hair, Smith had a single streak of blonde as light as Teri’s own hair. It softened her and added to her mystery.

  “Get moving!” Teri said it as much for her own benefit as for Doc’s.

  Again that strange hesitation before he swung into action.

  Then, working quickly, he released the gear belt, sliced open her blouse—about two whole inches.

  “All the way up. Get the fabric out of the way.”

  “Damn good thing she’s not awake, she’d kill me,” he muttered as he continued the slice up to her collar and folded the shirt completely aside, fully exposing her sports bra.

  More than necessary, but she didn’t care. Instead Teri watched long enough to see that blood flowed, but didn’t pump out. “Sprinkle in some antibiotic powder, and insert the sponge. Wrap her in gauze then get over here.”

  7

  Doc decided that it was a good thing that Smith was out, otherwise she would ki
ll him—because damn but the woman was built, and it was majorly tough not to stare. He also saw that it was far from her first wound. Knife scars on the abdomen and shoulder. Another deep gash, wide and high on the ribs, that might have been another bullet wound.

  Or maybe a broadsword.

  Whatever Smith had been through, it had been a world filled with lots of pain.

  His own “big” scars to date were appendicitis, and a broken glass jar that had sliced his hand really badly once and needed five stitches when he was a kid. The bagel-slicing incident hadn’t really left a scar.

  He rapped knuckles against his helmet. Hopefully, that would be all—ever. No question but he was out of battle. He’d do anything he had to not to head up another fireteam.

  One glance at the two bodies…corpses off to the side. The staff sergeant and one of Smith’s team. If Jethro made it, that would be at least one other from his squad.

  “Why wasn’t I hit?”

  “So that you could get over here and help me.”

  He tied off the wrap around Smith, doublechecked that there weren’t any other bloody spots on her, and then shifted over.

  They worked over Jethro methodically. Plugging leaks and holes one by one.

  He handed Teri instruments, hung another bag of plasma, mopped up blood from the deck, and became pretty handy with the flesh glue. The hours he’d spent building model airplanes kept him from gluing his gloves to any of Jethro’s wounds.

  “So, Teri of the Alaskan Carsons, what brought you here?”

  “Black Hawk helicopter,” her tone was so dry that she seemed to desiccate the spilled blood on the deck before he could wipe it away.

  He laughed. “Wind back a bit more than that, Teri.”

  “Hold this.” He grabbed the retractor to keep the wound open as she probed for another round.

  “Shit, Jethro, dude. You gotta learn when to duck.” Jethro was out, but the monitors said his heart was still ticking. Amazing with the number of holes in him.

  “Family black sheep,” she spoke as if nothing unusual was going on.

  “Black sheep! Hooah!” He offered a high-five.

  She looked at his bloody glove, rolled her eyes, but he was pretty sure that she was smiling under her mask.

  It wasn’t a round that she pulled out, but the truck’s key that had somehow projectiled into his thigh.

  “What was your failing?” It was clear that it was up to him to keep her talking.

  “Not an artist.” Teri was almost as voluble as Smith. “Family of artists,” she doubled her word count.

  “Doing a pretty damn fine job of putting Jethro back into one piece. …Wait a sec.” Doc squinted at her. “My sister is big on some Carson from Alaska. Has a painting, well, a print of a painting, of spring melt-out all gold and red with sunlight.”

  “She has taste. That’s Mom’s work.”

  “Holy shit. I’m here with someone famous.”

  “So not,” Teri glared down at Jethro’s body, but they’d run out of things to fix.

  He’d been following along behind her, closing each of Jethro’s wounds and taping gauze over the finished work. He’d also been doing the antiseptic and bandage thing on scrapes from shattered chunks of burnt-orange wall and the like.

  “You look like a patchwork quilt, Jethro.”

  8

  Teri checked Jethro’s vitals one more time. Stable and improving.

  Smith? Not in trouble. Blood pressure still low, but safe.

  Done.

  She collapsed back against the aft cargo net.

  Somewhere along the way, the flight’s pair of crew chiefs had bagged the other two bodies.

  She was still aboard the helicopter. She always lost track of everything when there was someone to save.

  Keying the intercom, she asked the pilots, “Where are we?”

  “Just going feet wet. About ten minutes to the ship. What’s the count?”

  “Two DOA before we touched them. Two stable. One uninjured.”

  “Other flight saved one of four—another alive, but probably won’t make it to the ship. Well done, Medic.”

  That’s when she realized that the Air Force crew didn’t even know her name. “Thanks,” she released the intercom and it was back to just her and Doc on the med circuit.

  He checked over both patients, then blanketed them up to their necks despite the heat. Not a bad call. He actually blushed as he covered over Smith’s chest, which was pretty funny.

  She really looked at Doc for the first time. Her family was all sleek and neat. Elegant. Doc looked like he could play football, though he only had an inch or so on her.

  “Why are you the black sheep?” Teri asked in turn.

  Doc sighed. “Army instead of med school. Only one in the family.”

  “But you are a medic.”

  Doc laughed easily. “No, I’m a grunt. I’ve had that tag for about an hour—Smith’s doing. Guess it’s because I know how to unroll gauze without breaking into a nervous sweat.”

  His movements finally made sense. Instincts trained by growing up in a medical family but no formal training. Yet he’d helped save one. “Is that why you apologized to Smith before you tapped her for the IV?”

  “Yeah, never done that before. But given enough blood to make a fair guess. Your turn.”

  “Artist family. I am a medic,” she found it easy to tease him, a little.

  “Baaa!” Doc offered in commiseration that made her feel as if she belonged rather than her usually totally not. “Your ‘art’ just saved two lives, works for me. Jethro was a damn good man.”

  “Will still be.” He wasn’t dead after all.

  “I meant he was a damn good man when I was willing to fight beside him.”

  “And now you’re not.”

  Doc seemed to shrink. “You ever been in a firefight, Teri?”

  “Edges. Night Stalkers medics may fly right into the battle to do a rescue, but we’ve got the best gunners in the business for protection.”

  “This one was front and center. Seven of nine down hard. Sounds like five dead.” He actually shuddered. “Never want to watch or be in charge of something like that again.”

  “Yet you’re, well, you and Smith were the ones who survived. Were good enough to make it.”

  “Her skill, my luck.”

  The helo slowed abruptly and settled to the sprawling deck of the Peleliu helicopter carrier ship.

  The doors slammed open before they were fully settled onto the deck. Corpsmen with stretchers were waiting and in the swirl of unloading she lost track of Doc Carson.

  Which was really too bad, he was one of the few people she’d ever been comfortable just talking to.

  9

  “Tried to check out there, Smith. Damn glad you didn’t.” Gerrard dropped into the chair beside her bed in the ship’s infirmary. “The Peleliu might be an old boat, but their docs—real ones, not like me—are top notch. Say you’ll be good as new after they stitched up some of the inside stuff.”

  Smith shrugged, then winced. “Heard you had something to do with that.”

  Now it was his turn to shrug…and wait.

  No thanks. Nothing. Just the facts, man.

  He took his life in his hands and laughed at her. “You always were a chatty bitch.”

  At that she offered one of her lethal smiles. “Took out more of them than us; I’m happy.”

  “You mean you saved our asses. Damn but you can shoot, girl.”

  A passing Captain stopped and looked down at them. He was one of those tall, square-jawed, poster-soldier types. He wore mirrored Ray Bans even though they were several decks down in the ship.

  “You a shooter?” he asked.

  “She is. Best damn one I’ve ever seen,” Doc answered for her because Smith was busy squinting at the guy as if she could read something through those mirrored shades.

  “You the DAP Hawk pilot?” Smith asked him.

  “Best damn one you’ll ever see
,” he said with a straight face. “We’ve got a need of good gunners. Mechanics, too.”

  “Can hotwire a car faster than you can crash a helo,” Smith snapped back.

  Yet another piece of news Doc hadn’t known.

  “Good start. Work on that. Got a name?” Mr. Shades asked.

  “Smith. Kee Smith.”

  Doc looked over at her. He’d never heard her first name before. Maybe that’s why she never got a tag that stuck; Smith didn’t give anyone a thing to work with.

  “You?” Smith asked the guy in the glasses.

  “Yeah, I’ve got a name.” His grin was almost as lethal as Smith’s before he twisted on his heel and walked out.

  “Who the hell was that asshole?”

  Doc had no idea.

  “Viper Henderson,” Teri said from just behind his shoulder, making him twitch around to look at her. “Captain in command of the Night Stalkers 5D.”

  With no mask or helmet, and her blonde hair fluttering around her jawline, she looked amazing.

  “Huh.” Smith made a thoughtful sound. Then she looked at him. “I’m gonna live, Doc. Get outta here. Go save someone else’s life.”

  He glanced up at Teri who was watching him intently. At a loss for what else to do, he rose to his feet. It never paid to argue with Smith.

  Together, he and Teri checked in on Jethro who was awake.

  “Don’t walk in front of so many bullets next time, Bob.”

  “Whatever you say, Sarge.”

  “Bob?” Teri asked.

  “Corporal Bob Bodine,” Jethro grimaced up at her. “Jethro Bodine from The Beverly Hillbillies, Jed Clampett’s, uh, challenged nephew. I dropped my dinner tray in the damn chow line once—once—and now I guess I’m labeled for life.”

  “Maybe not. You did good today. Thanks for that last mag. It made a real difference. I’ll make damn sure it’s in my report.” It hadn’t actually mattered because of the Night Stalkers’ timely arrival, but there was no need for Jethro to know that. “Maybe ‘Last Mag’ Bodine?”