Prologue #2
Maurice lowered the soldier onto the floor of the helicopter and looked up into the face of the medic. His heart sank deep into his gut. Anger rose quickly to follow. “God damn it, Sandy. What the hell are you doing here? Jordan was supposed to cover this mission.”
“He fell and broke his hand on his way to the chopper. Someone had to take his place. I was there. I came.” She helped him drag the soldier deeper into the helicopter.
“Got another incoming,” Maurice said and turned to help Perez load the injured soldier into the aircraft.
The gunner jerked the machine gun around and fired rounds over the heads of the rest of the team racing for the Black Hawk.
Once the soldier was in, Sandy moved to check for a pulse.
Maurice spun around and added his firepower to the gunner’s, shooting over the heads of his teammates at the Taliban soldiers pouring out of the edge of the village.
Scott lumbered toward the chopper, carrying Collins. Tingle and Rusty close behind, backs to the chopper, firing at the enemy.
Maurice met Scott halfway. Between the two men, they slid Collins onto the floor of the aircraft.
Sandy went to work on Collins, applying pressure to the wound on his thigh.
The gunner aimed the full force of the M240A machine gun at the enemy while Maurice and Scott helped Tingle and Rusty aboard and jumped in after.
Maurice was barely inside when the Black Hawk rose from the ground, rocking with a sudden wind shear.
Sandy knelt beside Collins in the doorway, ripped open the medical bag and pulled out a saline IV bag. “Hold this!” she yelled over the roar of the engine, rotors and the blasts of the machine gun.
Maurice moved past her to give her room, hooked his hand in a cargo strap to stabilize, then grabbed the saline bag and held it while Sandy eased a needle into Collins’s arm with quiet, determined efficiency.
Calm, focused and good at what she did. That was Sandy.
She didn’t unravel in the heat of battle.
God, he loved her.
“Incoming!” the gunner yelled.
A flash erupted outside the open door, shooting sparks like a magnesium fire. The force of the explosion rocked the helicopter, immediately followed by a thick white cloud rushing into the craft along with the sound of something, not shrapnel, pelting the metal sides of the fuselage.
The scent of garlic, chemicals and burning hair assailed Maurice’s nostrils.
Sandy jerked, her back arching violently. She screamed as a flash of fire rose from the back of her helmet.
The Black Hawk lurched sideways.
Sandy’s knees slid in blood. She tipped backward, arms flailing, toward the open door.
Maurice released the cargo strap, dropped the IV bag and lunged for Sandy, grabbing her by the front of her armor-plated vest. Her momentum pulled him after her.
They teetered at the edge of the door, rotor wash sucking at them.
The helicopter rose higher into the air, several hundred feet from the ground.
Someone grabbed Maurice from behind.
Needing a better grasp on Sandy, Maurice released his right hand on the front of her vest and reached for a better hold, his fist bunching in the back of her body armor.
Something sizzled against his fingers. The pain burned through his hand.
He roared in anger. He couldn’t let go—wouldn’t let go of Sandy.
Then, hands on his arms and legs dragged him back from the door.
He brought Sandy with him.
Not until she was out of danger of falling from the craft did he release her vest and stare down at his hand, melting before his eyes.
“White phosphorous!” Scott yelled. He snagged the IV bag from the floor, punched a hole in it with his knife, held it over Maurice’s hand and squirted it over the flesh-eating chemical. The smell of burning flesh filled his senses.
He pushed Scott aside and dropped to his knees beside Sandy.
She lay face down, her body spasming, her fingers clawing at the metal floor.
“Careful!” Scott yelled. “The phosphorus got on her.”
Tingle held a flashlight over Sandy, the beam revealing a dark burn spot on the back of her helmet.
Maurice reached beneath her chin and unbuckled the clip. Holding onto the strap, he eased the helmet from her head and flung it out the door.
Tingle swept the flashlight beam over the back of Sandy’s head and muttered, “Fuck.”
A dark spot at the base of her skull told the story. She’d been hit by white phosphorous.
“Give me water! Gauze! Saline! Anything!” Maurice cried. He pulled Sandy up into his arms while others dug into the medic bag. “Sandy. Hold on. We’ve got you. Hang in there, baby.”
Her eyes stared up at him, unfocused, her body limp in his arms.
Scott dropped down beside Maurice. “Lean her forward.”
Maurice tipped her over his arm. Her head drooped, exposing the back of her neck where flesh and hair had been burned away.
Scott poured saline over a wad of gauze and dabbed at the spot.
“Just pour it on, damn it,” Maurice barked.
Scott squeezed the bag over the spot until it was empty.
Maurice leaned Sandy back. Her head lolled to the side. “Sandy?” He laid her out next to Collins and touched the fingers of his left hand to the base of her throat, praying for a pulse.
“Sandy, baby, don’t quit on me now. We have plans. A December wedding. Honeymoon in Cabo. Stay with me.”
Scott pushed his hand aside and touched his fingers to her throat. For a long moment, he waited. He dug in the medic bag again, found a pen light and lifted one of Sandy’s eyelids. The pupils didn’t respond. He tried the other with the same result.
Beside them, Rusty tied a tourniquet around Collins’s leg and applied a pressure bandage to his wound.
And Sandy lay still, her face pale, body limp.
A hand touched his shoulder. He didn’t look up. Words were useless. No tourniquet or pressure bandage would save her. Nothing Maurice could do would bring her back.