Blaze of Glory (41 page)

Jose moved from J. J. to Zinsser. As Rich pulled away, Moyer saw blood on his arms.

“I need more light, Boss.”

Again, Moyer pulled his flashlight. Rich did the same. Their beams traced Zinsser’s body and settled on his abdomen.

“Gut shot.”

The grim words needed no clarification. Everyone knows how bad such an injury can be.

Jose pulled his med kit close and opened it, retrieving a large gauze pad. He also pulled out a pair of surgical scissors and cut open Zinsser’s shirt. Zinsser didn’t move. There was a small hole an inch above and two inches to the right of his navel. “Help me roll him.”

Before Moyer could act, Rich was kneeling by Zinsser’s side. He rolled the man to his side. Moyer saw a gaping, ragged hole in the back. The exit wound was far worse than the entry.

Jose placed the sterile pad on the back wound and another on the entry wound. “He needs a hospital and needs one fast. I’m not seeing extreme bleeding so I think the bullet missed major vessels, but I’m sure it’s done a job on his internal organs. I’m pretty sure it missed his liver and stomach. His intestines—that’s another matter.”

“You think he’s gonna make it, Doc?”

Moyer heard an unexpected concern in Rich’s voice.

“If we can get him to a hospital. He’s going to need surgery.” Jose looked at Moyer. “It’s going to be close.”

Moyer nodded and moved forward to the cockpit. “I’ve got two injured men. We need to move it, Lieutenant.”

“Understood. We’ll move at best possible speed—”

A bright light in the hills lit the sky.

“What was that?” the pilot asked.

The only thing Moyer could remember being in that area was a mansion.

“Maybe someone did our job for us.”

“Boss?” Pete stood behind Moyer. “J. J. wants to see you.”

Moyer moved to the back again. “How you doing, son?”

“Good to go, Boss. Always good to go.”

“You’re not going to ask me to deliver some kind of final message are you? Cause it’s not your time.”

“I have a favor to ask . . .”

THE V-22 OSPREY LOWERED its rear ramp and made a slow pass over the marijuana field. J. J. stood near the opening, Rich to one side, Moyer to the other. The three wore safety straps. J. J. held a Willie Pete grenade retrieved from Zinsser’s vest.

He pulled the safety pin.

He took a deep breath and balanced on his one good leg.

The green indicator light lit, indicating they were over the target area.

J. J. tossed the phosphorus grenade out the back. A few moments later a blinding light lit the sky. As the Osprey flew toward the U.S./Mexico border, J. J. saw the fire begin to spread across the field.

CHAPTER 43

HOT. HE WAS HOT.

And dry. His eyeballs felt cracked and shrunken. Pain ran up his side and filled his body, but it had lost its edge.

He heard noise: the humming and drumming of powerful engines. Vibrations rose from the hard surface beneath his back. Opening his eyes, he saw dim lights overhead. Darkness framed the periphery of his vision. He couldn’t focus.

“Water.”

A large black face appeared in his vision. “Sorry, pal. Can’t do it. Gut wound.”

“Shaq?”

“Thought you died and were seeing angels, didn’t you? Understandable. I hate to be the one to tell you, but you’re still alive.”

“Team?”

Rich smiled. “We’re all here and headed home.”

“J. J. . . .”

“Doing fine. Don’t worry about him. You focus on staying alive.”

Zinsser nodded, then tried to rise. Scorching pain pushed him back.

“Stay put, man. Doc is working on you. We have a gift . . .”

Darkness filled Zinsser’s eyes. The sound of engines faded. A moment later Zinsser was in Somalia.

“DOC?” MOYER SAID.

Jose put two fingers on Zinsser’s throat. “He’s still with us, but I’m not sure he’ll last much longer if I don’t get this done. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“How can we he help?” Moyer studied Zinsser. He looked one step above a corpse.

“In this bag is a blood collection system—plastic bag with clear tubing. Pull it out.”

Moyer took hold of the bag, thankful someone thought to bring a more complete med kit than Jose could carry in the field. He found the empty, plastic IV bag.

“Okay, Rich. On your back.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. I’m going to draw off about 450ccs of blood.”

Moyer understood the dangers of what Jose was doing. “Walking Blood Bank” transfusions carried inherent risk. Jose wouldn’t be attempting this if he didn’t think Zinsser was close to death. Rich’s blood type matched Zinsser’s.

“They teach us not to trust dog tags or a soldier’s opinion,” Jose said before he tested Rich’s and Zinsser’s blood. It was a match. He inserted a large needle into Rich’s arm.

“Ow. Did you have to get a running start with that thing, Doc?”

“Stop being a baby and be still.”

“I’m just saying . . .”

“We’ll put you in for a Purple Heart, big guy,” Moyer said.

“Really? Cool.”

Blood flowed through the catheter and along the tubing. It seemed to Moyer to be taking a long time.

“Hold this.”

Moyer took the bag from Jose, who moved to Zinsser and cut away the man’s sleeve. Pulling a container of povidone iodine from the kit, he cleaned Zinsser’s arm. Once the bag was full of Rich’s blood, Jose changed needles and inserted it in Zinsser’s arm. Data didn’t flinch.

Slowly the blood passed through the tubing and into Zinsser’s arm.

“What are his chances, Doc?” Pete asked.

“This will help keep blood volume up and aid in carrying oxygen through his body. Assuming he doesn’t react to the blood, then he stands a chance—a slim chance, but a chance. What he really needs is a surgeon. I think the bleeding has stopped.” Jose shook his head. “The guy didn’t make a sound when he was hit; he just kept driving our sorry heinies to the extraction area.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t like we had time to talk about it.” Rich sat up, still holding a cotton ball over the small hole Jose had left in his arm. A second later he looked at Moyer. “You were right to keep him, Boss.”

Moyer wondered.

THE OSPREY SET DOWN at Martindale Army Airfield, an inactive airport near Fort Sam Houston. Ambulances were waiting for them, as was a minibus. Jose and the waiting medics moved J. J., Zinsser, and the lone surviving hostage from the aircraft to the ambulances. Moyer knew they’d be in good hands at San Antonio Military Medical Center. He wanted to ride with his injured men but knew he would only be in the way. Stowing their gear on the Osprey, Moyer led what was left of his team into the bus and took the first seat he saw. Fatigue washed over him like a high tide and for several moments he thought he would drown in it.

Every muscle ached. Every joint protested. Technically his mission was over, but personally it wouldn’t end until he knew J. J. and Zinsser would be all right.

The bus pulled away, and the team rode in silence, each lost in his thoughts. Moyer longed for the sweet release of sleep, but his mind would not allow it. Events played over and over in his head. He heard the unending gunfire, felt the sting of plaster as it struck his face. He replayed every communication, reran every scenario. What could he have done better? Two of his men were wounded. That came with the work they did. Each man knew the current mission could be their last, but they never believed it. Moyer had lost a man on a recent mission, and now there was a chance he’d lose another. The thought of it made him ill.

Voices rang in his head; J. J.’s scream echoed inside his skull; the sight of Zinsser lying facedown in the marijuana field played in his mind. Is this what Zinsser experienced? He didn’t know, but if it was, he’d be more sympathetic with the man.

THE SAN ANTONIO MILITARY Medical Center was a multistory, modern affair, and Moyer was relieved at the pilot’s choice. Thousands of medics had trained here, including Jose. They waited in the lobby of the ER, three men dressed in black, dirty from running through fields and enduring a firefight.

A tall, thin, bespectacled physician who looked too young to be a doctor approached Moyer. “Who’s going to be first?”

“First?” Moyer said. “I’m sorry, Captain, what do you mean by ‘first’?”

“I have orders to examine you and your men.”

“We’re fine.” Moyer waved his hand. “Any news on my injured men?”

“They’re in good hands. I don’t want to belabor the point . . .”

Moyer saw the doctor’s eyes looking for rank insignia. Neither Moyer nor any of his men wore one. “Sergeant Major Eric Moyer, sir.” He introduced Rich and Pete.

“Captain Reynolds, Sergeant Major. Shall we start with you?”

“I said we’re fine—”

“And I said I have orders to examine you and your men. My orders are your orders, Sergeant Major. If you cooperate, we can be done in no time.”

Moyer frowned. “You go first, Rich.”

“Why me?”

“Because you have that gaping wound Doc gave you.”

“Gaping wound?” Captain Reynolds’s eyes widened.

“Relax, Doc. I had some time on my hands so I gave a little blood.”

Reynolds shook his head. “You special ops types are all the same.”

CHAPTER 44

MOYER WAS THE LAST to be examined. When he exited the exam room he saw two familiar faces walking into the ER waiting area. Outside the sun bathed the Texas sky in light. Colonel Mac escorted Tess Rand through the doors, his hand on her elbow. He looked rock solid; she looked ready to collapse.

Moyer greeted them. Tess was in no mood for pleasantries. “Have you heard anything?”

“Last word I had was J. J. and Zinsser are in surgery. How did you get here?”

Colonel Mac answered. “I know a guy who knows a guy.” He forced a smile. “I left as soon as I heard you were airborne. I picked Tess up on the way.”

“Philadelphia is on the way?”

Colonel Mac shrugged. “It all depends on how you look at it.”

Another familiar face entered the ER. Moyer shook hands with Chaplain Bartley, J. J.’s brother. “No news yet, sir.”

“What can you tell us?” Bartley asked.

“Wait a sec.” Mac walked to a nurse who had just come down the hall and then, a moment later, motioned for Moyer and the others to follow. Soon they were seated in a small conference room. “I wanted a little privacy. I’ve also arranged for coffee and food.”