“Hang in there, Edie,” He said. “I’m the old goat. I go first, not you. You hear me?”
There wasn’t a whole lot of room aboard a RIB. The boat was about 11 feet across and almost 36 feet in length. The boat’s compartments were divided by seats, helm and railings. He and Edie were in a flat compartment behind the helm.
With Edie out of immediate danger, Scott started assessing the status of the SEALs, checking each before moving on to the next and the next. Adrenaline was helping his heart pump like a thoroughbred’s and he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. It’s Munich all over again, the voice of doubt said in the back of his thoughts.
The sentry position for the rear .50 cal was behind the rear seats. He climbed over a row of seats and around another. A SEAL was hunkered down near the base of the tripod, barely conscious, and clutching his pistol with one hand, his chest wound with the other.
“Friendly,” Scott said as he came around the seats. “Scott Evers from the Sea Shepherd. I’m here to help.” He checked the wound, put a palm-open hand to his head. It was a bad one — a sucking chest wound. Blood bubbled between the SEAL’s fingers with each breath.
Scott let the pistol drop to the deck, put both of the SEAL’s hands over the wound. SEALs sanitized their uniforms before going into the field, so there was no way to know the wounded man’s name right now. “If you can hear me, keep pressure. Press down.” He scrambled back over the seats, tried to think.
His training wasn’t in saving lives — it was in taking them. He was completely out of his league. Closing his eyes, he steadied himself so he could think. The answer was a 1-2-3. A paint by number. Sponge, bandage, seal. Was that it? It’d have to be, he told himself.
He grabbed what he needed, raced back. “I’m here,” he told the wounded man. “Stay with me.”
He cut open the seal’s uniform so he could begin his work. As he put the man’s hands back to the wound, he noted the name on the SEAL’s dog tags: Ben Cooper. “Ben, if you can hear me, keep pressure. Press down, if you can.”
“Sponge, bandage, seal,” he repeated to himself as he ripped open the plastic bag containing the Quickclot sponge. He put the 5”x5” mesh bag containing the Quickclot between the SEAL’s hands and the wound. “Ben, press down, if you can. Press down.”
Chapter 5
Scott opened the packages for the chest seal and compression bandage next. The chest seal was a 6” in diameter polyurethane disc with three valves that allowed air and blood to escape while sealing the wound. The wound side of the disc was covered in a thick layer of gel-based adhesive. He could seal the disc over blood and hair, but just to be sure, he used the compression bandage to soak up blood before applying the chest seal.
The chest seal worked its magic almost immediately. It was quick, direct, and effective. A lifesaver, if rescue ops arrived soon.
Scott clasped Ben’s shoulder. “Best I can do for now. I’ll return after I check the others. Hold strong.” He worked his way around and over seats to Edie. He checked her breathing, pulse. “Edie, it’s Scott,” he said. “You’re aboard one of the NSW RIBs. Hang in there. Help is on the way.”
Back at the helm, he repeated the distress call, then tried to get to the foreword gun position. Working his way around the bulletproof shielding protecting the helm wasn’t easy. He held onto the man-high shield while he walked along the air-filled sponson.
It was a wasted effort. There was nothing he could do to help. The sentry was dead.
Scott made his way back to the helm. Fluids. Edie and the SEAL — Ben — needed fluids. If there were IV kits, they weren’t anywhere he’d searched. Not that he was sure he could start IV drips, but it would have been something.
Every SEAL had a personal kit, perhaps one was a field medic. He didn’t like the idea of picking over the dead, but it wasn’t like he had a lot of choices. Where were rescue ops? Why weren’t they racing onto the scene already?
RIB’s had a long range, but their launch ship, the USS Kearsarge, had to be close. Launching helos, fighters or another pair of RIBs should’ve taken minutes. He should be able to hear and see something by now.
Finding two bottles of water, he started aft. He stopped, twisted about defensively, hands and feet at the ready while his eyes panned down as a perceived shifting caught his attention. A gloved hand floated ghostly for a moment, then disappeared.
Scott dropped the water bottles, scrambled over the side, reaching out as he went. His arm sank into the dark waters up passed his elbow. He found a hand, gripped the other’s arm around the wrist and pulled.
Retrieving the body from the water was a bit like pulling in a shark hooked to a tow rope by its tail. It took both arms, all his strength. He knew from the weight it wasn’t Kathy or Angel or Lian. What he was hefting was too big, too heavy.
What he’d found was clear as soon as the body was stretched out on the deck. It was one of the SEALs and not just any SEAL. It was Lieutenant Ansely, bleeding and looking exhausted.
Scott rolled the lieutenant onto his side, helped him through the coughing and sputtering. “Lieutenant, it’s Scott Evers. You’re safe aboard, wounded.” He ran off, shouting as he went. “I’m getting medical supplies.”
“Don’t bother,” Ansely said, his voice low and gravely. “Blood’s not mine.”
“Like hell it isn’t,” Scott shot back, already kneeling near the helm which had only been a few steps away. He scrounged for what he thought he needed, but it was slim pickings. He’d already used up most of the supplies. What was left pretty much amounted to gauze and tape.
He hurried to the lieutenant’s side, put a hand to the wound, showed off the blood. “Looks like your blood to me,” Scott said. He ripped through the lieutenant’s uniform to get to the wound. The trauma shears were somewhere, he just couldn’t remember where at the moment.
The wound was a deep gouge at the base of the neck on the right side. Not as bad as Scott expected-he’d expected a bullet wound. “Gauze and tape,” he muttered to himself as he did the best patchwork he could under the circumstances.
“Two other wounded aboard,” Scott said as he worked. “Edie from the Sea Shepherd and one of yours. Stay strong, lieutenant.”
Scott remembered the water bottles as he hurried back to Edie. “Edie,” he said, squatting down beside her with a capful of water. “Drink this if you can. You need to stay hydrated.”
Even though Edie was wrapped in the thermal blanket, her skin felt so cold. Her pulse and breathing were steady, if shallow. “No luck with IVs,” he told her. It didn’t matter whether she could hear him, only that he said it to her.
He climbed over and around seats. “Ben, if you can hear me, stay strong. Fight,” he said. As he kneeled down to check Ben’s vitals, Ben convulsed and then his breathing stopped. Scott started chest compressions. “Breathe, damn it, breathe.”
Scott counted compressions, stopped and was about to start re-breathing but remembered it was no longer recommended. He went back to steady compressions. “Breathe, breathe… Ben, don’t you die on me.”
Compression by compression, Scott kept on. He was sweating and cursing aloud. “Don’t you die on me, Ben,” he said. “Not like Munich, not again. Never again.”
Minutes passed. He lost track of how many. It could have been 2 or 3 or 5. He only knew he was getting tired. It’d been a long swim, and he hadn’t rested yet.