Holding Their Own XI: Hearts and Minds (19 page)

The ex-Marine captain took a knee beside one of his wounded, his experienced eye taking only a moment to estimate the injuries were life-threatening. In the light of the still-burning home, he could see the medic’s junk scattered around the area, used bandages, gloves glistened crimson red, paper wrappers, and the empty tubes of hypodermic needles. Litter no officer ever wanted to leave behind.

“Hang in there, Corporal. We’ll get you out of here ASAP,” he said softly to the barely conscious man.

While the team’s pharmacist mate worked quickly on the two most seriously wounded men, the captain’s expression remained stoic and unreadable. He’d watched this scene play out too many times before.

The battle to control the valley was over; the fight to save the wounded had just begun. “Get them stable enough to move,” he informed the hustling sawbones. “We’ll load them up in one of the vans and get them out of here as soon as you think they’re ready.”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied, his hands a blur over a nasty looking chest wound. “I’ll do my best.” 

Rising, the captain assessed their status. He had two dead, three wounded, including his second in command who was suffering from a badly broken nose. The injury had been a freak, the result of his man taking a thrown flashbang grenade square in the face at point-blank range.

Out of ten original men, the captain’s force was now only 50% effective. They had, he reminded himself, achieved the objective. It had required twice the original estimate of ammunition, with double the number of anticipated casualties. The two bleeding men at his feet would require serious medical attention within the next few hours, which meant they would have to be transported back to Oklahoma. The trip would reduce his headcount even further. The ranch house was a complete loss.

Visually sweeping the area, he noted the light flickering off the high stone walls that bordered the valley. It was an eerie hue, red flames against the black rocks. It reminded him of a village in Afghanistan from eight years back. That had been a bad night as well.

That war is long past
, he thought, bringing his mind back to Texas and the problems at hand.
You survived there; you can thrive here.

His Marines had taken their objective, but didn’t they always? The price had been high – too damned high. Like all men who lead combat units, he mentally replayed the engagement, making entries into a conceptual ledger of what had gone right… and where they had fucked up.

Tonight wasn’t much different from previous battles,
he decided. Fate had been against them, and there was little he could do about that. He’d also run into an enemy that had far exceeded their expectations. The men he’d dislodged from the property had been organized, disciplined, and had fought with more skill than any foe the captain had ever faced.

The former officer studied the ridge above, hazarding a guess that the men he’d just beaten were up there somewhere, staring down at the ground they’d lost.

He knew from the blood trails they’d discovered that one of the Alliance shooters was wounded. There was no way to know how seriously. Maybe his opposite was up there tending to his causalities, having the same thoughts about the price paid.

Another batch of rounds cooked off in what remained of the old farmhouse, drawing the Marine officer’s attention back to the flames. Knowing that his foe had been forced to retreat without all of their ammo did little to placate his melancholy outlook.

His men, angered over the loss of their comrades, had wanted to chase the Alliance team into the hills, but he’d not allowed it. Their foe had fought harder than anticipated, obviously possessed far more skills than anyone had estimated. Given what they’d experienced so far, it wouldn’t surprise him if an ambush or booby-traps awaited anyone stupid enough to go chasing after the retreating defenders in the darkness.

Who the hell are you?
He whispered to the dark cliffs above.

Chapter 7

Bishop and Butter had taken turns helping Grim, the contractor’s loss of blood draining his strength as they followed the game trail higher into the canyons. Thorns and cactus tugged at their skin and clothing, low branches and thick underbrush making every step difficult.

When it wasn’t the high desert foliage, it was loose, sandy soil and sharp rocks. Steep ravines threatened the misplaced step, narrow ledges overlooking vertical walls that would have been difficult in the best of circumstances. In the darkness, after an exhausting firefight, with heavy packs and a wounded man, it was the most difficult trail Bishop could remember negotiating.

Every muscle in the Texan’s body was burning like fire, perspiration running down his forehead to deliver stinging salt into already overtaxed eyes. Grim was getting weaker at the same time the incline grew steeper.

After just a half-mile, Bishop had to call it quits. Butter didn’t protest the decision.

It was as good a spot as any, a small enclave that offered a relatively flat floor and high rock walls on three sides. They could defend it if the men from below pursued, but it would be their last stand as there was no escape route.

“This is our Alamo if they come after us,” Bishop said in a matter of fact tone. “Let’s hope this isn’t where we die.”

The Texan didn’t believe they were being chased. He’d listened for the telltale “whump” of his hand grenade booby-trap, but the warning had never sounded. Unless the men in the valley were the absolute best stalkers in the world, there was no sign of anyone on their trail.

Bishop was also aware all of that could easily change come sunrise. That’s what he would do, wait for good light and follow the blood.

Grim was priority one.

After cutting away one leg of the contractor’s fatigues, Bishop found three shrapnel wounds. Two were no longer bleeding, deep scrapes that he doubted still contained any of the explosive metal fragments.

The third puncture in his friend’s limb, however, was troubling.

Between Grim’s knee and buttocks, directly in the middle of the thigh, was a nasty looking hole about the size of a dime. While a major artery had been spared, blood continued to run out of the wound at a good clip.

Stop the bleeding
, Bishop thought. That was always the first rule of battlefield medics. Keep that precious, life-giving fluid inside the body.

“I think my leg’s broken,” Grim croaked in a weak voice.

“Could be,” Bishop responded, already having counted that possibility. “It’s not a compound fracture though, at least not from what I can see.”

Retrieving a small canister of antibiotic spray, Bishop did his best to keep the wounds from getting infected. His topical application would do little if Grim had a hunk of metal in his body. Next came the bandages, the largest puncture getting most of his attentions.

Grim moaned in agony when Bishop began wrapping the big wound. “Sorry friend, but I’ve got to get this good and tight,” he told the patient.

“Do what you have to,” Grim replied through gritted teeth. “I feel like there’s a chunk of burning metal in there the size of a softball.”

After finishing several circles around Grim’s thigh with a bandage, Bishop pulled a bottle of small pills from his kit. “These will help with the pain… a little,” he informed the still hurting contractor.

Grim waived them off, “I can deal with it. Give me my weapon and drag me to a good spot. I can still fight.”

“No,” Bishop replied. “We’re fine. You need water and rest. Drink and sleep. That’s an order. If they come after us, then you’ll be in the shit, I promise. Until then, chill.”

Grim nodded without so much as a dirty look.
The guy’s got to be at his limit
, Bishop thought.
Hell, I’m toast, and I don’t have three new holes in my body.

Even the youngest of his team was exhausted; sweat pouring from his body, his breathing heavy from the exertion and sudden stress of the moment. Butter, resting nearby and drinking from a water bottle, looked like hell warmed over. “You okay?” Bishop checked.

“Yes, sir. I’m still trying to figure out what just happened. I keep replaying it over and over again in my mind. Do you know, sir?”

Butter was experiencing a common trauma, one that Bishop had felt a dozen times before. The intensity of the firefight they’d just survived combined with the lack of sleep, physical exertion, and extended adrenaline dumps was enough to rattle the human brain.

“Are your hands shaking?” Bishop inquired with the soft voice of understanding.

“Yes, sir. But I’m not scared… I just can’t… they won’t stop.”

“You probably feel like you want to puke, too,” Bishop continued with the fatherly tone. “I can’t tell you why, Butter, but I can promise it will pass. You’ll be okay. Go ahead and toss your cookies if you want. I usually do. No shame in it.”

The admission seemed to brighten the big kid’s mood. “Even you feel like this, sir?”

“All the time,” Bishop responded with a warm smile. “It’s normal. We just had several very well-trained, highly motivated individuals try and end our existence on this earth. Your brain probably thought you were dead a dozen times during the encounter. Now it’s trying to figure out how you survived, and in the process you are reliving how close you came to death during the ordeal. Don’t worry about it. It will pass.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ve been shot at before, but
that…
back in that valley… it was… was….”

“Intense,” Bishop finished for him.

“Yes, sir. I guess that’s as good a word as any. I feel all hollow inside, like I left everything back there. I’m just an empty shell with a stomachache and worthless limbs.”

“That, my young friend, is a no bullshit assessment if I’ve ever heard one. You’ll be okay. I promise.”

For a moment, Bishop thought about mentioning the nightmares that were sure to follow. He decided the kid had enough on his plate at the moment, and besides, the Texan didn’t have any sage advice concerning the nocturnal terrors that would probably plague Butter for the rest of his life. It simply became part of a fighting man’s existence until the reaper arrived and took care of the problem.

Bishop was bone tired and wanted nothing more than to lie down and close his eyes. Sucking water through his Camelbak’s tube, he rose, forcing stiff, cracking knees to respond. He needed to assess their position, figure out where to post a lookout, take inventory of their remaining kit, and most importantly of all, come up with a plan of action to get Grim on a surgeon’s table before infection, shock, or blood loss ended his friend’s life.

“Get some rest, Butter. I’m going to run down my checklist for the next hour, and then I’ll be toast. Sleep if you can… even a few minutes will help. If not, close your eyes, drink tons of water, and grab a nibble of something if you can hold it down. I’m going to need you pretty soon.”

Butter nodded, reaching for his pack and opening a pouch to produce a slab of jerked beef. After Bishop was sure the kid was okay, he moved off to get a better look at their new home. The sun would be coming up in a few hours, and if the men back in the valley still had any fight left in them, that’s when they would come.

Katherine sat in her favorite rocking chair, the handmade heirloom a product of her great-grandfather’s workshop. It was her harbor of tranquility, a stress reducing respite that might be occupied at any time, day or night. Hand carved of local oak, it had occupied the same position for so long that the curved runners had worn deep grooves in the porch’s wooden planks. Everyone who knew the Baxter matriarch kept their distance, even the greenest ranch hand having been warned that when the boss was rocking, now wasn’t the time to come knocking.

Despite the early, pre-dawn hour, there were plenty of men around to heed the warning. Awakened by the thunderous explosions, rifle reports, and flashes against the night sky, the entire Baxter contingency had grumbled outside, all wondering about the distant ruckus.

Charged with excitement and curiosity, they remained scattered around the main corral and bunkhouse even after the sounds of battle had died down.

Some clustered together in small gaggles, whispering speculations on the outcome, ferocity, and participants of the gunfight. Others rested a boot on a comfortable plank of fencing, watching the reddish glow pulse against the night sky without uttering a word.

For her part, Katherine sat rocking, her well-known temper barely held in check.

She’d agreed to let the Alliance SAINT team handle the squatters, not to sit and watch her childhood home go up in flames. It was bad enough the barn had caught fire a few nights ago, now the beautiful valley would be scarred with a second pile of ash, charred timber, and scorched memories.

She was certain the crimson hue on the horizon was her childhood home. There was nothing else in the basin that would burn with such intensity. She’d been raised in that house, brushed her first pony while it was tethered to the front porch’s rail. Her bedroom was the one in the rear with the big window – a pane of glass where a daydreaming girl could watch the whitetail come down from the hills and graze in the backyard. How she had envied their beauty and grace.