The drowning sensation made no sense. But as her oxygen debt deepened and her vision blurred, she realized the obvious.
This is what it feels like to die.
Through air gauzy with smoke, Parson peered through his NVGs. Held the goggles with one hand, his rifle with the other. On night vision, the smoke gave the appearance of a green toxic gas, the atmosphere of a cursed planet devoid of life.
He tried to think clearly, understand what these bastards were doing and where they were. The A-10 had rocked their world, that was for damn sure. But some of them were still firing.
The ruins of some old structure, a wall only inches high, gave him a bit of defilade. Ahead of him, Blount found similar cover. From there, the Marine used that badass weapon of his with deadly effect. His Squad Advanced Marksman Rifle had put down at least three of these sons of bitches.
But his team had taken casualties. When Parson first jumped out of the helicopter, he saw two Marines on the ground. And some of the Afghan troops had been mowed down before they ever fired a shot. Parson remained outside the aircraft, trying to help make up for the loss in firepower.
Rashid should have lifted off by now to get his aircraft out of harm’s way, but the Mi-17 still sat on the LZ. The helo’s rotors turned at idle, stirring that otherworldly smoke. The door gun stood silent.
Someone threw a grenade. When it detonated, the photoflash effect illuminated a still image of the firefight. Parson saw Blount, prone, aiming. Beyond him, an insurgent pulling a boy by the arm. And at the cave mouth entrance to the bunker, a man with an RPG launcher.
Parson fired a burst. The man, now a dim figure in the dark, crumpled. His RPG flew wild, cut a harmless path over the top of the helicopter.
The glare of the rocket’s passage reflected in the windscreen of the Mi-17. Bullets had pocked the glass, round holes with edges crazed white. No wonder the chopper was still there. A dead or wounded crew.
In a crouch, gear rattling in his survival vest, Parson sprinted the few yards back to the helicopter. The engineer lay beside the door gun, one gloved hand over the breech of the PKM. Hard to tell where he’d been hit; black blood soaked most of his flight suit. Parson put down his M4, felt the engineer’s neck. No pulse.
In the cockpit, someone was moving.
“Rashid,” Parson called. “Are you hit?”
“Copilot dead,” Rashid said. His voice was weak, like a man just emerged from sleep.
Parson stumbled over the engineer, kicked the folding jump seat out of the way. The backlighting of instrument panels revealed blood on gauges, bits of glass on the console. The copilot hung in his harness, head twisted at an unnatural angle. Rashid had managed to release his own harness. He turned in his seat.
A bullet had nearly severed his right hand. The hand hung by tendons, bled from exposed arteries and torn muscle. Another round, apparently, had mangled much of his forearm. The night was growing cooler. In the chill, the blood gave off vapor.
Rashid would probably lose the hand. And if the bleeding didn’t stop, he’d lose his life. Parson looked around for a first-aid kit. He didn’t have to improvise a tourniquet; the new kits had specially made combat tourniquets. He found a kit on the cabin wall, pulled it from its mounts. Broke the seal and unzipped it.
The tourniquet amounted to a Velcro band with a windlass rod for tightening. Parson looped the band over Rashid’s arm just below the elbow.
“Damn it, I’m sorry, friend,” Parson said. “I know that hurts.”
Rashid said nothing. Parson fastened the band around itself. Turned the windlass, watched for the bleeding to stop. When no more drops fell from Rashid’s wrist and bloody sleeve, Parson locked down the windlass with a clip.
Outside, gunfire still sputtered. And the cockpit was a bullet magnet.
“Let’s at least get you out of that seat,” Parson said. “Can you stand?”
Rashid didn’t seem to comprehend, so Parson pulled on his good arm. “You need to get down on the floor,” he said.
The Afghan leaned on Parson, pushed himself up, and let Parson back him out of the cockpit, holding him by the armpits.
Parson lowered him to the floor. Hated to put him down on the bloody plating between his dead crew chief and engineer, but that seemed the safest place.
The engines of the Mi-17 still whined, and all of Parson’s instincts told him to let them idle. You didn’t shut down under fire. But Parson couldn’t fly the helicopter, and its running engines with flowing fuel could do little now except start a fire if a slug hit the right place. He leaned into the cockpit, reached overhead, and pulled the stopcocks.
Out the left cockpit window he saw stabs of flame from muzzle flashes. Rounds slapped into the side of the helicopter like thrown gravel.
Now Parson was angry. He might not know how to fly this contraption, but he could damn sure work its gun.
He turned, stepped aft to the door. Pushed the engineer’s hand off the weapon. Released the PKM from its mount, lifted the old-school wooden stock to his shoulder. The belt of ammunition dangled to his feet. Shoot my friends, will you? Maybe shoot at Sophia? He waited for those muzzle flashes again… There they were.
Parson pressed the trigger and held it down.
27
Gold wanted more than anything to make that radio call before life left her. Warn Blount and the others. But she could not talk, could barely breathe. What little air she inhaled, she coughed right back out in a bloody spray.
She sensed someone kneeling beside her. Reyes. She was probably beyond his talents now. She hated to leave this way, with a job undone—one so critical. But like every mission, her entire life had been just a frag—a fragmentary order—that was part of a larger op plan she was not cleared to know.
Her mind stopped racing, settled into something like acceptance. This wasn’t so bad. It hurt, but the pain wouldn’t last much longer.
Scattered images, sensations came to her. Vermont’s Green Mountains, aflame with sunset and October. A rocky coast in Maine, lobster with corn on the cob. A banana milk shake with almonds and dates, a gift from students in Kabul. Quite a blessing, she thought, to have such memories to ease her passing.
Reyes pulled a knife. He slashed away her MOLLE gear, pushed aside her radios, cut the fasteners of her body armor.
“Your lungs have collapsed, Sergeant Major,” he said. His words only half registered, as if they applied to someone else.
One of the Marines held a penlight for Reyes as he worked. The Marine shielded the light with his hand to hide the glow from the enemy. Reyes unbuttoned her ACU top, cut open her bra.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “Also, this might hurt a little.”
He reached into his medical ruck, withdrew a catheter needle so large, it resembled a nail. Gold noticed the silver glint of stainless steel, thought it strangely pretty.
Reyes pressed his fingers into the flesh just above her left breast. Found a spot between ribs. Aimed the needle. Pushed it in all the way.
A faint pop sounded as the needle pierced her chest cavity. Then came a long rush of air.
The fist that had crushed her lungs let go. She drew half a breath. Coughed blood. Drew a full breath.
Dear God, it hurt. But now her chest rose and fell. Reyes slid the needle from the catheter, left the catheter inside her.
“I think that bullet glanced off your clavicle or something,” Reyes said. “It got at least one of your lungs, and it exited your back.”
“I’ve seen bullets do weirder things,” the Marine said.
“You just got a needle decompression,” Reyes said. “Don’t pull out that catheter.”