The staff sergeant shook his head and pointed at the marine on the ground between the two rows of trucks. “Ramirez is dead. You grab that one.”
Alex stared at O’Neil, who clutched both legs, crying out in pain.
“He killed the marines. I need you to dump that piece of shit in the battalion TOC and tell the colonel it’s a special delivery from Alex Fletcher.”
The staff sergeant’s right hand drifted toward his rifle.
“You have to deliver him alive. He might have information critical to surviving this nightmare.”
The staff sergeant transferred the unresponsive marine into Alex’s care and jogged toward O’Neil.
“Alive, Staff Sergeant!” said Alex, not encouraged by the marine’s glare.
Alex carried the marine across the abandoned sea of trampled tents, backpacks and moaning bodies, noticing that the incoming militia fire had slackened. With the bomb plot thwarted, and all of the battalion’s machine guns back in action, the attack had been reduced to a lethal, medium-range engagement. Lethal for the militia. By the time Alex reached the steps of Stoughton Hall, the yard was quiet except for the panicked yelling inside the building. He fought his way through the packed hallway, jamming the side of his HK416 against those unwilling to move.
“Make a hole! Let’s go! Out of the way!”
“Take it easy! My wife’s ankle was sprained in that mess out there,” barked a man in front of Alex, holding a woman up by the arm.
“This marine was shot standing guard over you,” said Alex, shoving past the man.
Alex pushed his way through the door to the triage center and helped one of the corpsmen lower the unresponsive marine onto the floor. All of the cots were occupied by marines or civilians with grisly wounds. The events of the past five minutes had quickly filled the station to capacity. The corpsman worked on the wounded marine for several seconds, conducting a trauma assessment.
“Class IV!” he announced, turning to Alex. “Sorry.”
Class IV was a death sentence. The corporal’s wounds required treatment beyond the aid station’s capabilities, and they couldn’t move him to one of the local hospitals. Grady didn’t have the personnel to spare. Simple life-sustaining measures like emergency airway breathing and plasma replacement only delayed the inevitable, consuming resources that could be used to stabilize other casualties. If the marine revived on his own, they’d sedate him with narcotics. Combat triage was a bitch. Without the prospect of immediate medical evacuation to a Level Three medical treatment facility, triage was an angry, merciless bitch.
Alex dug through the marine’s ammunition pouches, filling his cargo pockets with spare rifle magazines. He had a feeling they faced a protracted siege at Harvard Yard that required an “all hands” effort. He eyeballed the corporal’s Dragon Skin tactical vest, wishing he could get his hands on a few of them. The level IV body armor could stop a .30-caliber armor-piercing bullet, along with high-explosive fragmentation. Unfortunately, it didn’t protect you from traitors that understood the vest’s coverage limitations.
Angry shouting erupted from the hallway, causing Alex to level his rifle at the open doorway. The battalion surgeon glanced from the door to Alex and went back to work on a squirming woman held down by a blood-splattered corpsman. A mud-encrusted marine stepped inside the room a few moments later.
“Colonel Grady just issued the thirty-minute withdrawal order, sir. No civilians.”
“We’re gonna need some help getting these marines to the vehicles,” said one of the corpsmen.
“We have our hands full with the perimeter. You’ll have to make do,” said the staff sergeant.
“Transition to palliative care for the civilians,” said the battalion surgeon, addressing the corpsman.
The navy petty officer beside him paused for a second before nodding slowly. “Yes, sir.”
The lieutenant commander tossed a bloodstained surgical instrument onto the wooden table and turned to face the marine. Placidly composed, his face projected a stolid “don’t fuck with me” expression. He spoke deliberately.
“Tell Grady we require an escort. When the crowd finds out that we’re abandoning civilian casualties, it’s unlikely that we’ll be able to reach the vehicles without creating more casualties—and I have no intention of doing that.”
“Sir, the battalion has its hands fu—”
“Take a look around you, Staff Sergeant. I have thirteen critical casualties. Four marine, nine civilian. I just issued an order that killed the civilians and violated my Hippocratic Oath. Their families are waiting outside that door. Guess who gets to face that music?” He paused. “Tell Grady to get his head out of Homeland’s ass and figure it out, or he can find a new battalion surgeon.”
“Goddamn it, Commander. I don’t have the personnel to—fuck it; we’ll clear the building. Be ready to move in ten minutes,” said the marine.
“We’ll be ready in five. What’s our destination?” said the naval officer.
“Melrose Armory.”
“What’s the status on a Level Three MTF?”
“Not at Melrose. They’re still working on the delivery of equipment and personnel to Concord or New Londonderry. I’ll be back in ten, sir,” said the marine.
“Lock the door on your way out,” said the battalion surgeon, glaring at Alex. “Reclassify that marine as Class II and stabilize him for transport.”
“Class II, sir,” answered the corpsman.
“If you don’t get moving, gentlemen, I’ll put you to work,” said the surgeon.
Alex left with the marine, pulling the door shut behind him and checking that it was locked. The civilians jammed against them, asking questions that Alex ignored. He broke through the crowd and jogged down the long, dim hallway to the stairs, passing open dormitory rooms filled with injured civilians. He wondered if these people might be better off without the marines at this point.
His legs protested halfway up the first flight of stairs, forcing him to stop on the landing and lean against the wall. A wave of exhaustion and ache washed over him, no longer confined to his left shoulder. The dirty bandages covering the shotgun wound showed signs of blood seepage. He fought the urge to take a seat in the stairwell, knowing he probably wouldn’t get up. His mission was to get Ryan and the Walkers into one of the MTVRs for the battalion’s withdrawal. Melrose was located a few miles due east of the Middlesex Fells Reservation, and he had every intention of hitching a ride as far north as possible.
He shuffled up the remaining stairs and entered the deserted second-floor hallway. Ed Walker poked his head out of the fourth door on the right.
“Ed! Battalion is pulling out in thirty minutes! We need to be moving!”
“Shit,” said Ed, stepping into the hallway with Alex’s original rifle. “Is it safe out there?”
“Safer than staying here. They’re headed up to a National Guard Armory in Melrose, which isn’t far from your jeep. Two miles tops. Charlie can drive the Jeep to meet us if Grady won’t take us directly,” he said, patting Ed on the shoulder. “We’re almost out of here, man.”
“I’ll feel better when we’re loaded up on one of their trucks,” said Ed.
“Me too. How’s Chloe?” whispered Alex.
“Better. She’s able to talk to Ryan, but she still won’t look at him.”
“She didn’t do anything wrong, Ed. I’ve seen marines freeze up way worse than that. Things got really nasty right before the bridge, and it got worse from there. She’s going to need some time and distance, neither of which are in ready supply right now. She’ll be the same young woman soon enough. Trust me.”