Crisis Four Page 4

  I said, ‘Are you sure you’re ready now?’

  It was the first time she’d looked at me since I’d returned to the room. I saw her studying the red mess on the side of my head. I pulled the pin of the first device and positioned it on the table between two VDUs. The handle flew off, and by the time the last one was placed two were already burning fiercely. I could feel the heat, even through my jump suit.

  I ditched the bergen; everything I needed now was in my belt kit. The air was filling with the noxious black fumes of burning plastic. I grabbed hold of Sarah, who had her repacked bergen slung over her shoulders, and headed for the door. I opened it a couple of inches and shouted to Glen, ‘Coming through! Coming through!’

  He yelled back, ‘Shut the fuck up and run! Run!’

  I didn’t look left or right, just ran for the door by the same route we’d come in. Within less than a minute I was in the cold night air, my eyes peeled for the gap in the fence. It was pointless worrying about getting shot; I just ran in a stoop to make as small a target as possible, keeping Sarah in front of me.

  I caught a glimpse of Glen behind me, plus another bloke still further back. They followed as we sprinted towards the fence, rounds thudding into the ground around us. The Syrians were firing far too many rounds in one burst and couldn’t control their aim.

  Reg 1 pulled open one half of the upside-down V. Sarah slid into the gap like a baseball player going for base. I prepared to do the same. I caught up with her as her slide stopped on the other side, and kicked her out of the way so I wasn’t blocking the gap for the other two.

  ‘Move! Move!’ I expected them to do the same to me. Nothing happened.

  Reg 1 had already seen the reason why: ‘Man down! Man down!’

  Looking back through the gloom, I could see a shape on the ground about twenty metres away. Whoever was with him already had his hand in his loop and was trying to drag him towards the fence. Each of us was wearing a harness, a large loop made of nylon strapping between our shoulder blades with which a downed body could be dragged or hooked up to a heli winch for a quick extraction.

  ‘Stay here – don’t move!’ I could see from Sarah’s expression that for once she was going to do as she was told.

  I ran out to the dragger, and between us we pulled Glen towards the hole in the fence line. He was moaning and groaning like a drunk. ‘Shit, I’m down, I’m down.’

  Good. If he was talking, he was breathing.

  I could see that the legs of his coveralls were shining with blood, but we’d have to look at that later. The first priority was to get him, and us, out of the immediate area.

  I slid through the fence, turned on my knees, got hold of Glen’s harness and dragged him through the gap. Sarah said and did nothing. Her bit was done; she was way out of her depth now. Reg 1 and 2 were waiting with her; the other two patrol members were giving covering fire from the olive-grove side of the fence as we moved towards them, letting off double taps at anything that moved. They needed to conserve ammo; we didn’t have Hollywood mags.

  Reg 1 was shouting commands. ‘Move back to the FRV, move back.’ He had a sat comm out, its miniature transmission dish pointing skyward, telling the world that we were in the shit. I didn’t know who he was talking to, but it certainly made me feel better.

  Every other man carried a poncho stretcher – a big sheet of green nylon with loop handles – as part of his kit. Reg 2 laid his on the ground as I removed Glen’s belt kit and bergen and put it on my back. So much for travelling light. As we rolled him onto the stretcher he was still conscious but, if he hadn’t already, he’d soon go into shock.

  It was then that I heard an ominous slurping noise in time with his breathing. He had a sucking wound to his chest: air was being sucked inside his chest cavity instead of going through his mouth. It was going to need sorting out quickly because otherwise the fucker was history. But there wasn’t enough time to do it here – that way we’d all die. We’d have to wait until we reached the FRV.

  Reg 2 heard the noise, too. Grasping Glen’s hand, he placed it on his chest. ‘Plug it up, mate.’ He wasn’t that out of it, he understood what he needed to do. With a chest wound we couldn’t give him morphine; he was going to have to take the pain.

  Two of us got hold of him, one either side of the stretcher, and started to hobble along with him as quickly as we could, Sarah following at my heels. I didn’t look at what was going on behind us, but I heard the rate of covering fire from Reg 1 and 2 step up as we moved off.

  We hit the tree line, Glen’s moans distorted by the jolting as we ran. We got further into the grove, and only then moved to the right, under cover. He was still conscious and breathing noisily as we laid him on his back. The light from the target area was just enough to see my hands moving as they worked on him. There was no need to worry about clearing his airway, but his hand had fallen from his chest. I put my hand over the wound to form a seal. Hopefully, with his chest now airtight, normal breathing would return. I could see the anguish in his eyes. His throat spluttered as he coughed and fought the pain. ‘What’s it like? What’s it like? Oh shit.’ He screwed up his face even more as Reg 2 moved him. It was a good sign: he could still feel it, his senses hadn’t given way yet.

  Reg 2 finished checking him. ‘No exit wound.’

  First you’ve got to plug the leaks, then you have to put in fluid to replace what’s been lost. I watched as Reg 2 grabbed the field dressings from Glen’s belt kit and ripped them open. You always use the casualty’s own dressings; you might need yours later. The packaging was Israeli, but they looked the same as ours, like big fat sanitary towels with a bandage attached. Their job, in any language, is to block up wounds and stop bleeding by the application of direct pressure.

  A round from an AK had also ripped through the muscle mass on his thigh, like a butcher’s knife slicing open a side of beef. He was losing blood fast. Reg 2 started to cavity-pack the wound.

  The downside of Glen still breathing was that we couldn’t shut him up. Over and over he groaned, ‘What’s it like? What’s it like?’

  I looked down at him. He was covered in sweat, and the dust had caked onto his face. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing, we’ll fix it.’ You should never let a casualty see you looking concerned.

  Sarah was several paces behind me, watching the route we had just taken, weapon out. I half whispered, half shouted, ‘Sarah! Come here!’

  She moved towards me. I said, ‘Put the heel of your hand over this hole when I take mine off, OK?’

  He was losing consciousness. Close to his ear, I said, ‘It’s OK, you can speak to me now.’ There was no response. ‘Oi, come on, speak to me, you fucker!’ I pulled on his sideburns. Nothing.

  I pulled up the left sleeve of his coveralls to expose the six-inch band of tubigrip on his forearm. Underneath that was the catheter, already inserted in a vein before we left Delhi. You’d have to be mad not to; a bit of anti-coagulant in the catheter to stop the blood from clotting and it will last for a good twenty-four hours. You are a bit sore afterwards, but it will save your life. It’s hard to get a vein up to insert a catheter once you’ve lost fluid, especially under fire and in darkness.

  Reg 2 had nearly finished packing the thigh wound. It would have been no good just piling bandages on top, because the muscle underneath was still going to bleed. You have to really pack the cavity, keeping direct pressure on the wound, and that, in turn, will stop the bleeding. That done, he now needed fluid.

  Glen’s breathing was very rapid and shallow, which wasn’t a good sign. I felt the pulse on his neck; same problem there. His heart was working overtime to circulate what fluid was left around his body.

  Shots were now being fired at us from about a hundred metres away but all my attention was focused on Glen.

  Reg 2 shouted at Sarah. ‘Watch him and tell us if his breathing starts to slow down. Got it?’ She nodded and started to take notice.

  I pulled the plasma expander f
rom his belt kit, a clear-plastic half-litre container shaped like a washing-up-liquid bottle. I ripped it out of its Israeli plastic wrapper and threw that on the ground. I bit off the little cap that kept the neck of the bottle sterile. Fuck hygiene – infections could be sorted out in hospital. Let’s keep him alive so he can get to one first.

  By now I also had his IV set out of its protective plastic coating, and was biting off the cap to the spearhead connector and jabbing it into the self-sealing neck of the bottle. I undid the screw clamp, took off the end cap and watched as the fluid ran through the line. I heard it splash onto Glen’s face. He didn’t react. Bad sign. Rolling the screw clamp on to stop the flow, I wasn’t concerned about air bubbles in the line; a small amount doesn’t matter – certainly not in these circumstances. Let’s just get the fluid in.

  There was more gunfire from the target area, too close for comfort, and for the first time since we’d been in the trees our blokes fired back. The Syrians had found us.

  Reg 1 was still in command. He was down at the tree line waiting for us to sort Glen out. ‘How much longer up there?’

  Reg 2 called back. ‘Two minutes, mate, two minutes. I need your fluids.’ As he jumped up with his weapon to collect the kit I unscrewed the end cap of the catheter and screwed the IV set into it.

  Sarah was still plugging the hole. I could hear her breathing quickly in my ear as she leant over Glen. ‘Nick, listen to me. Let’s leave them to it, let’s go.’

  She was right, of course. The two of us would stand a far better chance on our own.

  I ignored her and carried on working on Glen, gently squeezing the bottle to get the fluid into him. She whispered, a bit more urgently, ‘Come on, we need to go now, Nick. Remember, this is what they get paid for. And you are paid to protect me.’

  Glen had to be dangerously low on fluids, but he was still conscious – just. ‘Sarah, pass me your fluid, quick.’

  She used her free hand to pull the bergen straps off her back to get to it. The first bottle was now empty. I turned off the IV with the screw clamp. Sarah had her fluid in her hand. I said, ‘Open it.’

  I heard her ripping the plastic with her teeth as I pulled off the empty bottle. She handed it over. The sound of gunfire was still very much in the background.

  Reg 2 came back, packs of fluid pushed down the front of his jump suit, panting as he collapsed on the floor next to us. I jabbed the new bottle into the set and opened up the screw cap. Reg 2 was studying Glen. All of a sudden he shouted, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ and leaned over, grabbing Sarah’s hand and lifting it.

  There was a sound like a rush of air escaping from the valve of a car tyre and a fine geyser of blood sprayed in all directions. The round must have pierced his lung, and as he breathed in, the oxygen was escaping from the lung and going into the chest cavity. The pressure had built up so much in his chest that his lungs hadn’t been able to expand and his heart couldn’t function properly. That was why Sarah had to watch and listen, because the pressure on the heart and lungs would make him breathe much slower than he needed.

  Reg 2 went ballistic, still gripping her arm. ‘Fucking bitch! Fuck you. Do it right! What are you trying to do? Kill him?’

  She said nothing as the air gush subsided. Then, very calmly, she reminded him who was boss. ‘Let go of my arm at once and get on with your job.’

  Reg 2 placed Sarah’s hand back over the wound. Glen was just about conscious but still losing blood internally. Reg 2 got right up to his face, ‘Show you can hear me, mate . . . show me . . .’ There was no reply. ‘We’re going to move you, mate. Not long now before we’re out of here. OK? OK?’ All he got in reply was a low moan. At least there was a reply.

  Reg 2 had to turn him to check the leg dressing. Blood started to run out of the hole and down Sarah’s fingers. She looked at me, pissed off, as another fluid set was being connected. She wanted out of here.

  The others were rolling into the FRV, out of breath and confused about what had happened. ‘Is everyone here?’ Reg 1 counted. He came over to us and looked at Glen. ‘Is he ready to go?’

  Reg 2, still looking at the casualty, said, ‘I think we’re just about to find out.’ Using one of the large safety pins that came with the field dressings, he pinned Glen’s tongue to his bottom lip. Glen was out of it; he couldn’t feel a thing. The danger was that, in a state of unconsciousness, his tongue would roll back and block his airway.

  I turned to Sarah as they sorted their shit out for the next phase and whispered in her ear, ‘Our best chance now is with these boys. If you don’t want to come, that’s fine, but you leave the bergen. I’ll take it back.’

  The look on her face said she knew she had no choice. She wasn’t going to leave; she couldn’t do it without me.

  Reg 2 placed one of the ripped plastic coverings over the wound to seal it better and instructed Sarah, ‘Get your hand back on that.’ He and another Reg picked up the casualty. Reg 2 kept the bottle high for the fluid to run freely by holding the hanging loop in his mouth.

  It wasn’t a tactical move to the wagons, it was a case of getting out of there as fast as we could, bearing in mind the weight of the casualty and his comfort. I didn’t know what was going on behind me, back at the target area, and I didn’t really care.

  We reached the vehicles about thirty minutes later. I grabbed Sarah and took her to one side. There was no point getting involved in what these blokes were doing; we were just passengers. That wasn’t good enough for Sarah. ‘Come on,’ she hissed, ‘why aren’t we moving yet?’

  I pointed at the rear Previa. They had got the back door open and were pulling the seats down to create a flat space for Glen. Looking beyond them I noticed that the town was still dark. I was right, the industrial units must have had emergency power.

  The driver of our vehicle retrieved the key, opened the door and motioned us inside. Another of the team got in the front. He leaned back towards us. ‘As soon as they’re ready we’re going to move to the ERV (Emergency Rendezvous).’

  We were sitting in darkness, the driver with his NVGs on. There was tension in the air; we needed to get going. If not, it wouldn’t just be Glen who’d be in the shit. I didn’t talk to Sarah; I didn’t even look at her.

  At last, the other vehicle started to move off slowly and ours manoeuvred in front of it and took the lead. It wasn’t long before we hit the metalled road. Behind us headlights came on, and Sarah took this as her cue to get out her laptop. A few seconds later she was going shit or bust on the keyboard. The screen glowed in the darkness, lighting up her sweaty, dirty face. My eyes moved to the maps, diagrams and Arabic script in front of her, none of which meant anything to me, and then down at her well-manicured fingers which were tapping away furiously on the keys and smearing them with Glen’s blood.

  We drove like men possessed for twenty minutes. Then, after an NVG drive into the desert with IR filters on the wagons’ lights for another ten, we stopped.

  Apart from the engine gently ticking over and the noise of Sarah’s fingers hitting the keys and her mumbling the Arab script she was reading, there was silence. A beeping noise came from the laptop. She muttered, ‘Fuck it!’ Her battery was running out.

  There were shouts from the other Previa. Somebody was working hard on Glen, yelling at him, trying to get a response. Silence was obviously out of the question now. It’s hard to be quiet when you’re fighting to keep a man alive.

  The driver looked at his watch after about five minutes. He opened the door and shouted, ‘Lights!’ then started to flash the wagon’s IR light between dipped and full beam as he hit the Firefly and stuck it out of the window. Even as this was being said, I started to hear a throbbing noise in the distance, and less than a minute later the sky was filled with the steady, ponderous beat of an incoming Chinook. The noise became deafening and stones clattered against the windscreen and bodywork as the Previa rocked under the downwash from the rotor blades. The pilot wouldn’t be able to see the vehicles or the grou
nd now due to all the sand and crap his rotors were throwing up.

  A few seconds later a figure loomed out of the dust storm, bent double, his flying suit whipping around him. He flashed a red light at us and the driver shouted, ‘That’s it, let’s go.’

  Our vehicle edged forwards. We drove for several yards into the maelstrom of wind and dust before things started to calm down. Red and white Cyalume sticks glowed around the open ramp and the interior was bathed in red light. Three loadies wearing shoulder holsters, body armour and helmets with the visors down were beckoning to us urgently with a Cyalume stick in each hand. As if we needed any encouragement.

  Our Previa bumped up the ramp as if we were driving onto a cross-Channel ferry, and one of the loadies signalled us to a stop. The other vehicle lurched in behind us, and as soon as it had cleared the ramp I could feel the aircraft start to lift off its hydraulic suspension. Moments later, we were in a hover.

  We swayed to the left and right as the pilot sorted his shit out and the loadies lashed down the tyres with chains. Hertz were going to be one very pissed-off rental company.

  We were no more than sixty feet off the ground when I felt the nose of the Chinook dip as we started to move off and turn to the right.

  Chaos erupted inside the aircraft. The Regs spilled from their vehicles, shouting at the loadies, ‘White light! Give us white light!’ Somebody hit the switch, and all of a sudden it was like standing on a floodlit football pitch.

  The inside of the other wagon looked like a scene out of ER. Glen was still on his back, but they’d ripped open the front of his coveralls to expose the chest wound. Blood was everywhere, even over the windows.

  Reg 2 ran over to a loadie who was still at the heli ramp checking it had closed up correctly. He shouted as loudly as he could against the side of the guy’s helmet and pointed to the rear wagon. ‘Trauma pack! Get the trauma pack!’

  The loadie took one look at the bloodied windows, disconnected the intercom lead from his helmet and sprinted towards the front of the heli.