Not saying a word, but with a dour expression, Dalton shrugged at the captain and followed his sergeant.
Inside the pipe, Flood had no intention of slow crawling. His man was in there, somewhere, maybe in trouble. Head up, night-vision visor down, not caring if Dalton kept up, Flood scrambled down the pipe.
May 9, 01:50 (PDT)
At last, Upton and McMichael reached the exit. From his earlier experience climbing in, Upton knew the pipe fed a drainage ditch that ran along the edge of the highway. He needed to get into that ditch. On his back, gritting his teeth against the pain, he turned onto his stomach. After the pain subsided, he inched his head out of the pipe and looked both ways. No movement. Deciding it was safe, with an effort, hands forward acting as a brace, he slithered out head first into the ditch. Landing in soft sand, he rolled over and found himself looking up at a night filled with stars and gasped with pain. Three seconds later, barefoot and without a helmet, Staff Sergeant Lisa McMichael followed and slid into the ditch beside him. The temperature was cooler outside, and he noticed her shivering, still covered in places with wet blood. Although the bottom of the ditch was sandy, he spotted sage brush with sharp thorns along the edges. McMichael needed footwear and quick.
“Now what?” McMichael whispered.
“Gotta keep moving and cross the highway into the desert. Then we’ll work towards the outskirts of Mesquite,” answered Upton.
“Until I get my feet covered, that ain’t happening,” said McMichael.
With a groan, Upton struggled to his feet and, bending over, caught his breath. The pain wasn’t overwhelming. He could do this. Standing erect, he took a few easy steps up the embankment and, using his night-vision visor, peered down the highway in both directions.
McMichael watched Upton and waited.
After a few seconds, he spotted something. “Got a vehicle coming from the left; no headlights; westbound. Stay low,” he whispered.
“What type of vehicle,” asked McMichael.
Upton didn’t answer. Instead he focused on the movement and tried to determine the threat and possibilities. As the vehicle approached, recognition dawned and he made up his mind. Grunting against the pain from his injured ribs, he scrambled out of the ditch.
McMichael pulled Kinney’s Glock from her waistband and followed.
Upton positioned himself in the middle of the highway. It was crazy, but McMichael needed footwear, and the vehicle appeared to be the only good option. With his left arm, he began waving while in his right he pulled out his M18 SIG Sauer and trained it on the approaching vehicle. As it got closer, he confirmed his suspicion; it was an ambulance, marked with a white cross, no headlights. Relieved it wasn’t a combat vehicle, he waited as it slowed and came to a stop twenty meters distant.
Upton ceased waving and gripped the M18 with both hands. Weapon pointed, moving with discomfort, he hobbled closer.
Behind him, McMichael raised Kinney’s suppressed Glock and followed.
As Upton drew near the ambulance, he detected both the driver and passenger holding up their hands. M18 gripped tight, he came to a stop and signaled the driver to roll down the window. The driver complied, and Upton closed the distance stopping a few meters away. “Driver, get out of the ambulance.”
“Who are you?” asked the man seated behind the wheel.
Upton saw a wispy mustache. He assumed they were medics and less of a combat threat. Still, taking the vehicle was an imperative. For emphasis, he waved the M18 in the air. “Doesn’t matter. Get out.”
“Hey. We’re on the same side,” said the driver.
Upton stepped a little closer, and keeping his M18 trained, inspected the men. The driver wore Medical Corps insignia, corporal chevrons, a name tag that read Chavez. Most surprisingly, he wore an ROAS badge. “You guys ROAS?”
“Si, Sergeant. I’m Corporal Chavez, and sitting next to me is Corporal Spanos. We’re ROAS medics captured after the battle today.”
“Then why aren’t you behind razor wire?” asked Upton.
“After we surrendered, they put us to work. They demanded we take a loyalty oath. We had to agree never to take up arms against the US. In return, they promised to release us soon. Until then, we work for them. They also claimed until we’re paroled, if we try to escape, they’ll execute us. We’ve been humping wounded back to our field hospital most of the day. You know, Sergeant, we’re medics, not grunts. We took the oath. Our job is to save lives, and that’s what we’ve been trying to do, including our own.”
Upton, believing the medic, lowered his handgun and waved McMichael forward. Before she could join him, he turned back to Chavez and said, “Yeah. We’re on the same side. But me and my partner haven’t been captured or taken any loyalty oath. I doubt they’d let us. We need help. Sergeant McMichael lacks boots and your vehicle can help us escape.”
“Not wise,” said Chavez, lowering his hands. “We’re expected back any second, and if we don’t show up soon, they’ll come hunting. Besides, an ambulance is easy to spot, and well, Sergeant, we took an oath.”
The passenger, Corporal Spanos, leaned over and smiled. “You’re lucky, amigos. Another two hundred meters, and you’d be out of the dip in this highway and spotted by the US checkpoint.”
Upton looked down the highway and imagined a roadblock. Maybe taking the vehicle wasn’t a good idea. Better to stick with the original plan and hump out on foot.
McMichael joined Upton and asked, “Do you have a pair of boots I can borrow? Maybe bandages, medicine, painkillers too?”
Upton could see Chavez examining McMichael with a look of concern.
Chavez, in a slight accent said, “Lady, you look fucked up. How bad are you hurt?”
“Oh,” said McMichael glancing down at her blood-soaked pants and combat shirt. Raising her head, she replied, “Not mine.”
“Wow! Okay, I get it,” replied Chavez. After a moment the medic seemed to make up his mind and turned to Spanos. “Get out and join ’em in the back, hook ’em up. I’ll drive another 150 meters down the road, then let ’em out so the checkpoint doesn’t see. Vamanos!”
Spanos didn’t hesitate and jumped out of the ambulance, heading towards the rear.
Relieved, Upton shuffled after him.
McMichael turned to follow but stopped. Through the open window, she smiled and said, “Gracias, amigo.”
Chavez recoiled and then said, “Lady, you need to wash your face, get out of those bloody clothes, and see a dentist. Vive la République! Now hurry, and get in the back.”
Sergeant Flood came to a turn in the pipe, the first one he’d encountered. Getting on his belly, eager to find Specialist Kinney, Glock at the ready, he rounded the bend. There, farther down the pipe, he spotted a person lying face down wearing no boots, a small light emanating from a headlamp. With his Glock trained on the figure, using his night vision, he watched and waited for signs of movement. There weren’t any. The sinking feeling he’d been carrying grew worse. Past the body, much farther down, he detected ambient light and determined it must be an opening. Nothing else was in sight. Ready to shoot, he yelled out, “Don’t fucking move!”
No response, not even a flinch.
Flood got to his knees and, keeping the target in sight, crawled forward. Behind him, he heard Corporal Dalton slithering through the bend. As Flood neared the body, he confirmed the size and shape. In trepidation, reaching out with his Glock, he nudged a leg. No response. The uniform and helmet were US issue, the body face down in a pool of blood. He had to confirm the obvious. With his free hand, he lifted the helmeted head and flinched. It was Kinney. He’d been mutilated. His throat and mouth lay ripped open. Just as bad, the young specialist’s eyes bulged in rigor. Flood felt a rush of anger mixed with guilt and sorrow. Whoever did this was brutal. Kinney didn’t deserve to die in this manner. Worse, Flood knew he sent the young man to meet this horrible fate. In a gentle move, he let Kinney’s head down and said, “Goddammit. Shit and fuck!”