He walked closer, then talked into his throat mike. “We found him! Back building!”
Stalley hurried past him. Falling on his knees next to Grant, Stalley slid his medical bag off his back and laid it open next to him. Leaning carefully, he put an ear next to Grant’s mouth, checking his breathing, making sure there wasn’t any obstruction, and simultaneously, focusing his eyes on Grant’s chest, seeing it rising and falling rhythmically (heaving). He laid his fingers on Grant’s wrist, checking the strength of his pulse.
“Is he alive?” Kenton asked as he leaned over Grant.
“Yeah, chief! He is!”
Kenton spoke into his throat mike. “He’s alive, sir!”
Monroe pressed a finger against his earpiece, hearing the chief’s message. He gave a quick thumb’s up to Clayton and Restin. Now it was time for the three of them to make it happen.
Raising their NVGs, they ducked low under the window, then stood again once they were in front of the door. Their .45s were held firmly with both hands, barrels pointing up. They each had a target. Clayton glanced at Monroe who gave a quick nod of his head.
With surprise as their advantage, Clayton kicked the door with all the force he could muster. Pieces of doorframe splintered. With perfect precision, the SEALs burst into the room, and with three muffled shots, it was over.
The Russians barely had time to blink, let alone reach for a weapon. The force of the bullet slammed the first Russian back against his chair, knocking him ass over end, with his head bent at a peculiar angle when he landed. The man next to him took a bullet just off center of his forehead, snapping his head back. His mouth fell wide open; his arms dangled by his side. The third man had started to turn and was “blown” sideways from a bullet just above his temple, knocking him completely off the chair. He landed on the floor with a thud,still in a seated position. With the size of the holes in their heads, an extra “tap” didn’t seem necessary, but just in case…
The SEALs did a quick search of the room. Clayton smashed the radio. Monroe picked up the Makarov on the table, seeing a cloth, smeared with blood. As they were leaving, Monroe reached up to the lamp and turned the wick adjustment mechanism until the flame went out.
They ran from the house, lowering their NVGs, rushing to catch up to Kenton and Stalley. As they ran, Monroe spoke into his throat mike. “We’re on our way, chief!”
“Frank! Take the watch!” Monroe ordered as they got to the building. He and Restin ran to the back room, moving close to Stalley. “How’s he doing, Cal?”
“Still trying to determine that, sir. His pulse is pretty good, all things considered.”
He leaned closer to Grant. “Captain Stevens! Can you hear me, sir?” No response. “Captain Stevens!” Grant’s arm was outstretched to the side. He struggled to lift his hand, managing to give somewhat of a thumb’s up, prompting Stalley to say, “Fuckin’ A, sir!”
Grant cleared his throat, trying to say something. Stalley leaned closer. “Say again, sir.” Grant managed to repeat the words slowly. “Yes, sir. Little Creek.” He laughed at Grant’s next comment, and replied, “Yes, sir! I agree.”
“What’d he say?” Monroe asked, curiously.
“He said it was about time we got here.” The rest of the Team couldn’t help but crack smiles, nodding in complete agreement, but wishing they’d made it sooner. Stalley got down to serious business again. “Can you move at all, sir?”
Grant lay motionless. He tried to take a deep breath and grimaced. “Don’t… think… so,” he answered with a weak, raspy voice. “Don’t… want to.”
Stalley smiled and placed a comforting hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Understand, sir, and that’s okay. But I need you to try. Try and move your feet,” Stalley requested, as he looked toward Grant’s muddied stocking feet. Grant concentrated through the pain, fighting unconsciousness. “Another fuckin’ A! Good job, sir. Now, you just hang in there. I’m going to examine you. I’ll work as fast as I can. We’ll get you outta here soon, sir.
“Hold some light over here!” Three penlights lit up. It was then they noticed a rope still tied around one wrist. Even his throat had streaks of red.
Stalley took a pair of scissors from his bag and cut away what was left of Grant’s torn and ragged shirt. Severe bruising was over his entire upper body. Removing a stethoscope from the compartment, Stalley fitted the stethoscope’s earpieces, then placed the chest piece cup over Grant’s chest, checking that both lungs were expanded.
The corpsman put on a pair of rubber gloves, snapping them against his wrist, while he looked at Grant. “Those bastards were just in here,” he said quietly. “Some of these wounds are fresh.” Blood was everywhere, including his head and face. More splatters were along the top of his trousers. There were stains where blood had soaked through his trouser legs.
Monroe leaned close. “Is it possible the butt of a pistol would cause some of those deep bruises, Cal?”
Stalley nodded. “Very possible, sir, along with fists, and boots,” he said as he pointed to Grant’s legs, “with that blood on his trousers.” He scooted behind Grant, examining the injury on the side of his head. Dried blood was caked in his hair. “Most likely a bullet,” the corpsman commented quietly. Carefully, so not to move Grant’s head, he felt as much as he could along the sides and back, touching a couple of large lumps, feeling more caked blood. There wasn’t any way for him to tell if there was a skull fracture, but a concussion was more than likely. He looked up at the chief. “Chief, can you stabilize his head while I examine him?”
Tapping lightly with two fingers, he palpated where there was bruising, trying to determine if there was internal bleeding. An open two inch wound, just above Grant’s waistband, was still oozing. There were other smaller cuts. Those wouldn’t need immediate attention.
Lieutenant Monroe leaned closer. “What the hell did they hit him with to make those cuts?”
Stalley just shook his head slowly, “Can’t imagine, sir.” He methodically started moving his hands along Grant’s legs then arms, trying to determine if there were any broken bones. As he started feeling along the lower ribcage, Grant moaned. “Sorry, sir.” He commented quietly, mostly for Monroe’s benefit, “Feels like simple rib fractures on both sides; both bone’s are in alignment. We’ve gotta be extra careful getting him outta here.
“Only other break I can find is his index finger. Will take a look at his back before he goes on the litter.” He ran his hand across the collarbone to the right shoulder. A groan escaped from Grant’s throat. “Have a problem here. Shoulder’s dislocated.”
“Jesus Christ! They used him like a fuckin’ punching bag… and jerked his arm out of the socket?” Lieutenant Monroe said between clenched teeth. It sickened him to think what the next round of punishment would’ve been if they hadn’t showed up when they did. He knelt on the other side of Grant, leaning slightly, as he said quietly, “It’s over, captain. We took care of those bastards.”
Grant wanted to respond but was having a tough time. His throat was raw and dry, but he managed the words between swallows of whatever saliva he could muster. “Fuckin’ A.”
Monroe patted his shoulder then stood. He realized they’d have to devise a makeshift litter and secure Grant, just in case he had any back or neck injuries. He looked at Restin. “Bill, gather up any of his things that might be scattered around, then fix up a litter.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Restin circled the room, using his penlight, searching the perimeter, finding Grant’s windbreaker tossed in a corner. As he stood, something caught his eye and he looked up. “Oh, fuck! LT!”