The Black Hawk prop wash created a cool wind atop the JUSMAG roof in the early morning haze. It was an ominous sight to Hewit and a fearsome one to Rockingham, the soldiers running low beneath the chopping blades of the helicopter, carrying a wounded comrade.
Rockingham recognized immediately that the four soldiers carried a piece of plywood with a man lying on it. He ran out to help them, then stopped and nearly gagged when he saw Captain Garrett. He was filthy, his face streaked with matted blood and caked with white dirt. His uniform showed white salt stains where he had sweat through them. A bandage was tied neatly around his head, obviously protecting a wound. He was unconscious — or dead.
Rockingham shuddered.
Major Hewit noticed that the concerned look on the faces of the soldiers showed a deep amount of admiration and respect for the man that they carried. They all searched for the doctor with anxious eyes.
Hewit had summoned the country team physician, an Air Force doctor named Colonel (Retired) Anthony Mosconi, who had stayed in country after Clark Air Base closed. His wife was Filipino, and he preferred to stay in her country as long as feasible. The doctor had a room in the JUSMAG headquarters dedicated to the general practice of caring for the embassy and JUSMAG staffs on a one-day-a-week basis. It had been a while since he had done any combat triage or surgery, but he remembered it well and hoped he would not have to make any tough decisions.
The decision was easy. One of the patients was ambulatory, walking with a crutch provided by the medevac pilot. He had a leg injury, but a quick inspection showed the medic had done a professional job of cleaning and dressing the wound. Turning his attention to the man on the plywood, he saw captain’s bars on the soldier’s uniform.
Must be the commander. Poor guys — eight thousand kilometers away from home, and their commander gets shot.
He shined a small flashlight into the captain’s eyes while the four enlisted soldiers waited close by, hoping, praying for good news.
“Fix him, Doc. I don’t care what it takes, fix him,” said Sergeant Spencer, a tall black squad leader in Barker’s platoon. The doctor looked somberly at Spencer’s serious face and moist eyes.
Looking over the doctor’s shoulder, Rockingham felt guilty that he had missed the action with his company. Rock was incensed that Fraley had forced him into the situation, but Captain Garrett had told him not to fight it, and to get back as quickly as he could.
“Maybe you’ll be able to get some intel,” Zachary had said.
Rockingham talked with the four soldiers about the night’s activity, but they were seemingly incapable of communication as they watched the doctor work on their commander in the brightly lit room that seemed more like an office-made-operating room than a genuine doctor’s workplace.
Chapter 40
“What’s your name, son?” the voice asked. This was another dream, he was sure. He was inside of a dirty Coke bottle, trying to look out beyond the dusty glass. There were people standing above him, but their faces were large, then small, then large again as he rolled inside the bottle. Voices. He heard voices trying to talk to him. It was his brother Matt, calling his name. He could not see him, though, only hear a voice. The voice again, calling, pleading for him to come. Then he saw Kurtz rising from his crouch, yelling at him, grabbing his arm and pulling. He heard the voice again, calling a name. The voice. He must remember the voice. If he could only hang on, he could pull himself out of the bottle and find the troubled voice.
“What’s your name?”
The doctor broke an ampoule of ammonia inhalant open beneath Zachary Garrett’s nose, causing his face to wrinkle. That was a good sign, the troops realized as they watched, peering intently down upon their leader. The doctor had taken off the bandage and handed it to Sergeant Spencer, revealing a long, jagged wound that ran a thirteen-centimeter course above his left ear. The doctor surmised that the wound was more ugly than severe, and concluded that the impact of the helmet being ripped from his head must have knocked him unconscious. Must have been one hell of a big bullet!
As Colonel Mosconi poked and prodded Captain Garrett, Fraley came rambling down the dimly lit hall, rays of sunlight jumping from each office doorway and highlighting Fraley’s cumbersome gait. Rockingham spotted him and angrily moved to meet Fraley in the hallway.
“You, fat son of a bitch!” Rockingham screamed at Fraley, whose eyes bulged wide as Rockingham grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him against the porcelain tile wall in the corridor.
“Get your hands off me, Lieutenant!” Fraley snapped back, his voice muffled by the shirt gathered around his mouth.
“You listen to me,” Rockingham said, grabbing with one hand the bloodstained dressing from Sergeant Spencer, who looked on in amazement.
“You’re gonna fry for this, Lieutenant, you hear me,” Fraley said, sounding like he had a harelip.
“You see this,” he said, holding the bloody dressing, “you did this.” He had lowered his voice, sounding calmer. Although Fraley was large, he was no match for Rockingham’s powerful frame as Rock lowered the man to the floor.
“I want you to have our blood on your face,” he said, wiping the bloodstained bandage across Fraley’s cheeks, “because you’ve already got it on your hands.”
Fraley quickly picked himself off the floor, brushing his green jungle fatigues, and screamed, “MPs!” Then he added, “Listen here, I’m calling your division commander to tell him to throw your ass in the brig at Pearl Harbor so little boys can screw you up your black ass.”
“Like hell you are,” Sergeant Spencer said, moving in front of Rockingham. Spencer, taller than Rockingham, looked to Fraley like an aboriginal warrior.
“Stay out of this, Spence,” Rockingham said, “this is between me and Fraley.” Spencer moved out of the way, giving Rockingham a supportive glance.
“You’ve got to get past me first,” Rockingham said. He was angry. Mostly he was mad about the abuse they had been taking from Fraley. But part of his rage was that he had not been with his company when they needed him.
“Back off, sir,” Spencer said, placing a hand on Rockingham’s chest. “This guy ain’t shit. He’s already pissed his pants. Let him go do whatever he’s got to do. We’ve got four eyewitnesses here that heard him threaten you and say you had a black ass. Now, really, what’s he gonna do?”
Rockingham backed off, glaring at Fraley with catlike eyes. True to Spencer’s prediction, Fraley turned and walked toward the back door, in the direction of his quarters.
The doctor heard the commotion in the hallway, but knowing it centered on Fraley and that the men had been in a firefight all morning, he let it ride, as did Major Hewit, standing by his side. At one time or another, they had all wanted to do and say the things that Lieutenant Rockingham had. Hewit watched out of the corner of his eye as the two scuffled and wondered if it could get much worse.
“Zachary Garrett. My name’s Zachary Garrett.”
The troops snapped their heads back, watching as their commander awoke.
“Zachary,” the doctor said, “how old are you?”
“Thirty-six,” Garrett said, weakly, eyes trying to open, but mostly fluttering.
“Good. What is your job?”
“Commander. Commander of the best troops in the Army.”
With the last comment, the soldiers knew their commander was going to be fine. They let out a collective “hooah” and gathered around him, where he still lay on the plywood.
“Not so fast, guys,” the doctor said, equally happy that Garrett was coherent. “Zachary, I’m taking off your boot and socks, can you feel any-thing?”