Pappa Zulu – Chapter 41

-Bertrand Russell

He knelt low behind the tree at the edge of the property. His legs were aching and his chest was on fire, the result of the constant running his last encounter with the enemy. He could hear them in the distance, a troop truck moving and stopping at regular intervals, working their way forward towards their objective and harrying anyone that resembled their comrade’s killer.

But their final objective remained the same, and so he had made a beeline there to beat them to it. He still wasn’t sure why they sought to occupy the Veteran’s Hospital, nor could he be sure he wasn’t placing them in greater danger by coming here. But something demanded it, possibly a primitive sense of honor. Possibly the belief that the sick and the wounded needed protection from someone who was up, about, and armed.

And how ironic. Every time he had been in this place in the past, he couldn’t wait to get out. Even when he had woken up to find himself sick and suffering from flashbacks, the moment they passed he was fighting to leave. And now, he was fighting to get back in.

And to keep others out, he reminded himself. Where did that fit in this grand scheme of things? Was that ironic, symbolic, or just plain stupid? Who the hell cared? All he knew was, he had arrived ahead of the enemy platoon, and he intended to get inside while he still had some energy left.

He set one foot in front of the other and launched himself forward. His boots smacked against soil and concrete as he passed from the lawn, to the sidewalk and then to the asphalt of the front parking lot. He stopped when he saw helmets and the telltale pattern of cammo fatigues. His eyes quickly registered the stretchers and the bearers, men with weapons standing by.

He dropped to one knee and leveled his M4 at them, aiming down his sites. His ears began to pick up the sound of barked orders and the sounds of more boots slapping the asphalt. He couldn’t be sure, but some of the voices sounded familiar…

“Get him inside! We got multiple five-five-six wounds and shrapnel.”

“Get him prepped for surgery. He’s got internal bleeding and possible septic shock.”

The latter voice was especially familiar, striking a cord deep in his mind. He opened both eyes and raised himself to a crouch, looking closely at the people working the entrance. He spotted the fatigues, the shoulder patches, and the IV one of the bearers was holding aloft.

Rattlesnakes, he concluded with some relief. He also spotted the white smock of doc Andrews, and his relief grew by several magnitudes. Again, he was getting that ironic feeling. Most days, he couldn’t wait to rid himself of the doc’s incessant and insufferable presence. But now, in the midst of a crisis, he could think of few people he wanted to see more.

Raising his weapon to the side, he ran for the east entrance and prepared to identify himself. As expected, several of the riflemen trained their weapons as they saw him approach.

“Don’t shoot!” he yelled. “Sergeant Aaron Dezba, First squad, First platoon, Bravo.”

“Dezba?” one of the grunts said. Dezba recognized him as Corporal Watkins, an NCO with Charlie Company. At the moment, he looked like he might be acting CO of a squad, or maybe something higher.

“Hey, Charlie,” he said. “You look like shit.”

Watkins lowered his M16 and reached out to grab his hand. “Where ya been, Sarge?”

“On leave,” he said, taking the hand offered. He noticed Watkins eyes looking at his other hand. His smile faded. Suddenly, no further explanations were needed.

Dezba looked next to Andrews. “Doc… how you doing?”

Andrews smiled curtly and looked back to the man on the stretcher before them. “Sergeant. Good to see you again. We’re a little busy right now, think you might help?”

Dezba was a little taken aback. The man’s usual, gentle nature had been replaced with something new, something stern and demanding. But of course, they were not in their usual environment, he the trauma patient and Andrews the rehabilitation specialist. At the moment, they were simply a blood-stained grunt and a blood-stained medic.

Dezba tossed his rifle off to the nearest grunt who looked free and grabbed a hold of one of the stretchers. One of Andrews underlings grabbed the other end and they scurried into the hospital entrance, coming to a gurneys where they began transferring the wounded and wheeling them off into the interior.

Andrews stepped aside to exchange some more clinical talk with another doctor, all heated from the sound of it. Dezba could understand about half of the words spoken – those that were in English, anyway – but he certainly picked up on the word “overloaded”, which was said about three times. In the interim, he waved Watkins over.

“What’s the situation, Corporal?”

“The situation?” Watkins echoed, a little incredulous. “Situation is, sir, we’re getting our butts handed to us. Enemy started dropping at dawn. No one saw em coming til it was too late. Then Warlock calls us up and tells us to dig in and await relief.” He paused a moment, apparently getting to the hard part. “Our platoon got especially hard hit. Troops and LAVs start dropping in in our sector, we barely got time to mount a proper resistance.”

“What did you do?”

Watkins wiped his nose, nodded sideways. “We fell back to plaza and set up defenses. The LT had a plan to set up a fire shack, take out any armor that tried to cross the bridge. We could tell they wanted the west bank and figured we could slow them down. It worked too… for awhile.”

Dezba waited. He could tell what was coming next, though he couldn’t be sure of the details. From his vantage point, the entire fight prior to his taking out those three grunts was all noise on the horizon.

“Then, some of the bastards called in an airstrike on our position. Bunch of F/A-18′s dive bombed us and sent everybody sprawling. The LT was killed, our Squad leader suddenly got promoted and tried to take control. Only thing he could think to do was fall back a few blocks and ordered me to organize an evac of all our wounded.”

Dezba nodded. “So you brought them here.”

“Only one vehicle,” he said, nodding back to their Humvee in the lot. “Had to load it up heavy.” He paused again. More things were coming to mind. “Worst part was, we were doing okay so long as we figured you buds in Second would be showing up soon. But then, get this, we get a follow up communique telling us that there is no relief coming, and that our new orders are to find a place to hide and wait. We even got permission to surrender, if need be.”

Dezba frowned, looking equally incredulous. Sounded like more a series of fuck-ups, not orders. And the contradictory nature of them was also offensive on a much deeper level. In short, they made no sense, and not in the normal, SNAFU sense of the word.

“I don’t understand,” he said finally. “Where the hell was Second Battalion in all this? Weren’t they just outside of town?”

“Yeah, only fifty clicks. If word got to them the moment we got word to start mobilizing, they should have been right on our doorstep. But some fuckhead told them to back off just when they could have been the most help. It was like somebody lost their nerve and decided to send everybody packing before anybody else got killed.”

Dezba shook his head. ’That… doesn’t sound like the Mage.”

“Yeah, well… it came from Warlock, and that’s his baby. If someone else got weak in the knees, it must have been because someone else was in charge.”

Dezba was on the verge of pointing out the flaw in the argument, but then stopped when he realized what was really being said. Could it really be? Could the worst have really happened? Were things that bad? If so, then it was much worse than them just getting kicked in the pants. A kick in the pants one could recover from, albeit slowly. This was more like a stab through the heart. After something like that, there was just slow death.

But he couldn’t think about that now. At the moment, they had a more urgent matter developing right on their doorstep. He looked over at Andrews, saw that he was between heated statements, and called him over.

“Doc, we need to talk,” he said. Watkins was about to leave them, but Dezba held him there. “No, Corporal, you need to hear this too.” He took a deep breath, tried to think of the best way to start. “So… look, while I was out there, I overheard some troopers on their radios. They were ordered to report to this location and secure it. I managed to take out the three I overheard, but they were waiting on an entire platoon to back them up. I managed to evade them, but it sounds like they got a troop truck and are on their way here. I might have slowed them down a bit too, but they were pretty much on my heels. My being here means they can’t be far behind.”

Andrews looked more annoyed than fearful. Watkins seemed a little distracted as well.

“Gentlemen, did you hear me? We got anywhere between two dozen and fifty men on their way here. And when they get here, they’re not exactly going to be looking for coffee and cake. I can’t tell what they’re ROE is, but since they’re attacking us, I know we won’t have a lot of options.”

“Just… shut up for a second,” he said, waving his hand. Dezba obliged, mainly out of surprise. “Our resources are strained enough as it is. Our patients – wounded and traumatized people, all – are woken up this morning to the tune of explosions and gunfire. It took every member of our staff to keep them from tearing their stitches out and clawing their eyes out. Then I get a bunch of your men coming by and telling me I need to put some biohazard package in cold storage for them. Then this man,” he pointed to Watkins, “comes in and tells me we have to make room for his wounded.” He pointed to Dezba last, the final offender in his litany of grievances. “Then you come here and tell me we can expect hostile soldiers here any second, looking for a fight with us. Have I got all that right?”

Dezba was taken aback. This was definitely not the Andrews he knew. He and Watkins looked at each other and shared a moment of shared thought. It fell to Dezba to reply, being the latest bearer of bad news.

“Uh, yes. That’s about right.”

Andrews nodded, smiled bitterly. “That’s just great. Good to know where we stand. So what will you be needing from us then? How can we accommodate you?”

He was pointing at Dezba again. “Well… I need Watkins and his men to set up a defensive perimeter. Under the circumstances, it would be best if the patients were moved further inside, away from the outer walls and the entrance.”

Andrews huffed and his face went slightly red. “We’ve been moving patients all morning. Since the explosions went off and our patients started going nuts!” He paused. That characterization seemed a bit harsh, given the nature of his work and patients. “Ah, what I mean is, the patients are already safely within, a precaution to insulate them from the noise. Is there anything else?”

Dezba looked at Watkins again. He couldn’t think of anything else right no. “Not at the moment, no. But… you should probably expect some additional casualties. Once the shooting starts, people are going to be hurt.”

Andrews took a deep breath, his color lightening. “Of course. We’ll certainly do what we can.”

There didn’t appear to be anything more to say. Andrews eventually nodded and turned to leave. Dezba was sure to wait until he was out of earshot before asking the obvious.

“Has he been like this all morning?”

“Hell yes!” Watkins replied. “You look like you guys know each other. Does he get better?”

Dezba looked at the nearest set of doors, the ones the Doctor had just disappeared into. “I really don’t know.” He shook his head and began looking to the front door, contemplating possible defensive positions. But a thought struck him and interrupted that train, made him look back at Watkins.

“Wait, what was that about soldiers with the package?”