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dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/2sNoDaO
*ahem* So I didn’t end up with “shenanigans” so much as “large amounts of angst and blood.” Since I’ve written modern-day vets Jack and Daniel meeting in therapy already, I decided to completely mix up the roles this time! Helicopter pilot is one of the combat roles open to women in the modern US military.
It’s a strange thing, blood. Five quarts in the human body, give or take a bit. Blood can look almost black under some kinds of light. Black on knuckles in a bar fight, say. But under the pitiless glare of an Afghanistan sun, it’s almost like it has no color at all. Like it’s so bright it vanishes into the blazing sand.
***
“Come on, Sousa, stay with me.”
It was clear from the outset there was no saving Sousa’s mangled leg, so Jack had tightened his belt around Sousa’s upper thigh, trying to staunch that endless flow of brilliant blood. His hands were sticky with it; his uniform caked with it. The sun beat down on them mercilessly, and every time the wind shifted, black oily smoke from the burning convoy rolled over them, making him cough. He’d dragged Sousa into the shadow of the canyon wall, but it was still hot as an oven, even in the shade.
Sousa sucked in a breath. “Krzeminski – Yauch –”
“All dead,” Jack said roughly.
He didn’t know what he was going to do if hostiles moved in on them. Not with his injured buddy half in, half out of his lap. His weapon dangled from its clip where he could lift it into position in a moment if he had to, but he had both hands full trying to keep the last surviving member of the men he’d worked and sweated next to for the last few months from bleeding out in the sand.
The low chop of a helicopter, echoing off the mountains, was the best sound he’d heard all day.
As the dark shadow of the Black Hawk angled their way across the heat-shimmering plain, Jack realized there wasn’t actually anywhere to land. He’d retreated with Sousa from enemy fire into a slot canyon, and the only nearby flat place to land was covered with burning pieces of their convoy. The helo was going to to have to land down on the plain; it’d be probably a quarter-mile hike up the road –
But even as he was thinking it, he realized the helo had vanished from sight and almost from sound; he could hear it, echoing down the canyons, but he couldn’t see where it had gone until suddenly, as if out of nowhere, the downdraft of the rotors blew his hair back. Jack tilted his head back and watched, impressed despite himself, as the Black Hawk pilot carefully maneuvered the helo between the canyon walls. It was a neat piece of flying. One of the best he’d seen. There was mere feet of clearance on either side of the rotors, if that. Jack shielded Sousa’s face as sand cascaded over them, kicked up by the helo’s spinning blades.
It didn’t touch down; the ground was too rough. As it hovered, a soldier jumped out of the open door and ran toward Jack. “Can he walk or do you need a stretcher?” The voice, he was surprised to notice, was female; the name tag said MARTINELLI.
“He can’t walk,” Jack said.
The woman cursed. “We don’t have a third today.” The normal complement on a Black Hawk crew was three. “And Carter can’t touch down. Can we carry him?”
He’d no confidence at all that she could hold up her end, but between the two of them, they did, stumbling toward the helo as the pilot kept it surprisingly steady despite the capricious wind blowing up from the plains. “Where’s your third?” Jack asked, to keep his mind off Sousa moaning softly, head lolling against Jack’s chest and his lips cracked in the heat.
“Out with food poisoning.” Martinelli flashed him a quick, bright grin. “We were doing some maneuvers without him when your SOS came in. It would’ve been an extra half-hour to base and back, so we came straight out.”
Half an hour probably would’ve done it for Sousa. “Tell your pilot he’s doing a hell of a job.”
“She,” Martinelli said, as she helped him heft Sousa’s deadweight into the helicopter, and then gave him a hand up. “And you can tell her yourself, sir.”
(Your picture was not posted)
*ahem* So I didn’t end up with “shenanigans” so much as “large amounts of angst and blood.” Since I’ve written modern-day vets Jack and Daniel meeting in therapy already, I decided to completely mix up the roles this time! Helicopter pilot is one of the combat roles open to women in the modern US military.
It’s a strange thing, blood. Five quarts in the human body, give or take a bit. Blood can look almost black under some kinds of light. Black on knuckles in a bar fight, say. But under the pitiless glare of an Afghanistan sun, it’s almost like it has no color at all. Like it’s so bright it vanishes into the blazing sand.
***
“Come on, Sousa, stay with me.”
It was clear from the outset there was no saving Sousa’s mangled leg, so Jack had tightened his belt around Sousa’s upper thigh, trying to staunch that endless flow of brilliant blood. His hands were sticky with it; his uniform caked with it. The sun beat down on them mercilessly, and every time the wind shifted, black oily smoke from the burning convoy rolled over them, making him cough. He’d dragged Sousa into the shadow of the canyon wall, but it was still hot as an oven, even in the shade.
Sousa sucked in a breath. “Krzeminski – Yauch –”
“All dead,” Jack said roughly.
He didn’t know what he was going to do if hostiles moved in on them. Not with his injured buddy half in, half out of his lap. His weapon dangled from its clip where he could lift it into position in a moment if he had to, but he had both hands full trying to keep the last surviving member of the men he’d worked and sweated next to for the last few months from bleeding out in the sand.
The low chop of a helicopter, echoing off the mountains, was the best sound he’d heard all day.
As the dark shadow of the Black Hawk angled their way across the heat-shimmering plain, Jack realized there wasn’t actually anywhere to land. He’d retreated with Sousa from enemy fire into a slot canyon, and the only nearby flat place to land was covered with burning pieces of their convoy. The helo was going to to have to land down on the plain; it’d be probably a quarter-mile hike up the road –
But even as he was thinking it, he realized the helo had vanished from sight and almost from sound; he could hear it, echoing down the canyons, but he couldn’t see where it had gone until suddenly, as if out of nowhere, the downdraft of the rotors blew his hair back. Jack tilted his head back and watched, impressed despite himself, as the Black Hawk pilot carefully maneuvered the helo between the canyon walls. It was a neat piece of flying. One of the best he’d seen. There was mere feet of clearance on either side of the rotors, if that. Jack shielded Sousa’s face as sand cascaded over them, kicked up by the helo’s spinning blades.
It didn’t touch down; the ground was too rough. As it hovered, a soldier jumped out of the open door and ran toward Jack. “Can he walk or do you need a stretcher?” The voice, he was surprised to notice, was female; the name tag said MARTINELLI.
“He can’t walk,” Jack said.
The woman cursed. “We don’t have a third today.” The normal complement on a Black Hawk crew was three. “And Carter can’t touch down. Can we carry him?”
He’d no confidence at all that she could hold up her end, but between the two of them, they did, stumbling toward the helo as the pilot kept it surprisingly steady despite the capricious wind blowing up from the plains. “Where’s your third?” Jack asked, to keep his mind off Sousa moaning softly, head lolling against Jack’s chest and his lips cracked in the heat.
“Out with food poisoning.” Martinelli flashed him a quick, bright grin. “We were doing some maneuvers without him when your SOS came in. It would’ve been an extra half-hour to base and back, so we came straight out.”
Half an hour probably would’ve done it for Sousa. “Tell your pilot he’s doing a hell of a job.”
“She,” Martinelli said, as she helped him heft Sousa’s deadweight into the helicopter, and then gave him a hand up. “And you can tell her yourself, sir.”
(Your picture was not posted)
