“Shit, we’ve got incoming!” the pilot shouted, and he snapped the Black Hawk over into an opposite turn. For a few seconds, it looked to John as if he was about to go straight into the mountain before pulling around.
John caught a glimpse down and saw that a firefight was opening up, tracers arcing back and forth between where the Black Hawks were landing and bunkers set to either side of what appeared to be a massive steel door at least thirty feet wide and twenty feet high. What appeared to be orange tennis balls snapped past the Black Hawk’s windshield, the pilot cursing and going into sharp spiraling evasive turns.
“I’m putting us down before we get hit up here!” the pilot shouted, and he nosed nearly straight down. The helicopter pads were now all occupied by the Black Hawks, John’s pilot opting for an access road, plowed as well, that circled round the pads. He flared up sharply, the medic that was flying with them reaching up to slide a side door open. Even before touching down, he was shouting for them to get out, stay low, and hit the ground.
Forrest was the first up and in spite of his old war injuries was out the door. He ran half a dozen feet and flung himself to the ground, M4 up and ready to engage.
John had not done anything like this in more than twenty years, but training did kick in, as it did for Malady and even Maury, who leaped out and sprawled into the snow alongside Forrest. John looked back and saw Lee standing in the open doorway, Grace behind him.
“Lee, Grace, get out!” John shouted, and at that instant, a burst of shots laced down the side of the helicopter, shattering its forward windshield, hitting the pilot, and then stitching across Lee. He collapsed back into the Black Hawk, the long burst raking down the length of the helicopter, tearing across the turbine housings, and from there into the tail rotor, which disintegrated into deadly shards arcing out in every direction.
Smoke billowed out between the still-rotating rotor blades. John got to his feet and ran back even as the medic was grabbing hold of Lee, pulling him feet first out of the crippled bird. There was blood covering Grace’s face, but she was up, helping to push Lee out, John grabbing hold of his friend’s legs and pulling him to safety.
His friend was wide-eyed and gasping. It looked as if his vest had taken a shot, and for a few seconds, John thought he had just been stunned by the blow, turning to Grace and shouting at her if she was wounded.
“I don’t think I’m hit!” she cried. He then looked back at Lee, who at that instant started to cough up blood.
The medic frantically tore the Kevlar jacket open, cursing. There was an entry wound that had punched through his jacket just above his heart. The medic rolled Lee up onto his side, slipped his hand down the back, and came up with a bloody hand.
“Damn it!” the medic cried, and he looked at Grace, who had been standing behind Lee in the helicopter, her face splattered with blood.
“You hit?”
“No, not sure … no.”
“Then put pressure on Lee’s wound!” the medic shouted, pushing down hard with his own hands first and then grabbing Grace’s hand and guiding her to take over. He looked back to the front of the chopper. The pilot was staggering out, arm drenched with blood, copilot running around the front of the Black Hawk to help him get clear. The medic returned his focus to Lee.
John knelt beside Lee, not sure what to do other than hold his old friend’s hand. The medic was cutting through Lee’s parka and shirt underneath, stabbing the exposed arm with a syrette of morphine, and seconds later the look of panic in Lee’s eyes cleared a bit while the medic worked frantically to set up a bag of plasma.
“What’s his name?” the medic cried, looking over at John.
“Lee Robinson.”
The medic leaned down close to Lee’s face. “Lee, you are going to make it, but you’ve got to stay with me. I’ve got to keep you breathing, I’m going to work a breathing and suction tube down you; don’t panic. You got that? Stay with me. I’m going to get you through this!”
Lee looked around wide-eyed, gaze resting on John. “Gettysburg. Good place to die, my friend.”
“You’re not dying, Lee!” John cried.
Lee coughed up more blood. “Thought we’d share being grandfathers together. Tell them I love them.”
He started to convulse. The medic gave up on the breathing tube for a moment, pulling Grace’s bloody hands aside and actually slipping a couple of fingers into the entry wound.
“Jesus God,” the medic whispered softly, and then he leaned back, reached into the tote bag dangling from his shoulder, pulled it open, and drew out an emergency surgical pack.
“I’ve got to try to go in,” the medic announced, “stop the bleeding there.”
He unrolled the pack beside Lee and then drew out another morphine syrette and stuck it into Lee’s arm.
John looked at him, questioning this decision.
“I’ve got to all but knock him out,” the medic snapped before John could even ask.
All this time, gunfire was snapping around them, several shots stitching up the snow within feet of where the medic was working. He looked back over his shoulder. “Damn you, you sons of bitches, can’t you see I’m a damn medic?” he cried.
Lee was still frothing up blood. His lungs were clogging with aspirated blood, the medic whispering for Grace to cover her friend’s eyes and keep reassuring him.
She began to sob as she leaned over him and started to whisper calming words that he would make it.
Another convulsion tore through Lee’s body, blood spraying up out of his mouth in a torrent, and then he just started to relax.
The medic leaned back and said nothing, lowering his head.
Lee looked up at John and actually appeared to smile. “Gettysburg. Bury me here, John.” And then he was gone.
John could only kneel beside his friend of so many years, holding his hand, finger resting on his pulse, feeling the last faint beat, and he was gone. All he could do was kneel over, embrace his friend … and cry.
“Matherson!”
He looked up. It was Sergeant Major Bentley gesturing for him to come forward.
John ignored him for the moment, looking back to the medic.
“It was .50 caliber most likely. Kevlar won’t stop that. Felt like his aorta was nicked, pulmonary arteries shot up as well.” He stared at Lee for a moment and then turned to look at the pilot, who was crouched down next to him, blood pouring down his arm.
“Let’s take care of that,” the medic said, and he turned away as if Lee had never existed.
“Damn it, Matherson, on me!” Again it was Bentley. John forced himself to stand up and then paused, leaned back over, and closed his friend’s eyes. Grace was kneeling by the body, crying.
“Grace, stay here with the medic. You can help him.”
“I’m going with you,” she snapped sharply.
“Damn it, I’m not losing you too, Grace. Now stay here with the medic. He needs you more than I do.”
“Stay here, Grace; I need you,” the medic ordered even as he tore away the sleeve of the wounded pilot to reveal arterial blood pulsing out.