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Authors: Keith Douglass
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down into his? Hard to tell. âWeâre aboard the helo, L-T,â Docâs voice said. âYou just rest easy.â
âThe . . . men?â It was hard to speak, hard to make himself heard. Each breath was a small agony, and he wasnât sure Doc could hear above the background roar of the rotors.
Docâs face dipped lower, turning. âWhat was that, sir?â
âThe . . . the men. Get them . . . out. . . . â
âEverybody got out, Skipper. Youâre the only one who stopped a bullet. Why the frigginâ hell didnât you duck?â Docâs voice was light, bantering, but Cotter could hear the tightness behind the words. âDamn it, what kind of example is that for you to set for your men?â
âMission? . . .â
âAll three helos made it out, Skipper. Everybody made it out. Mission complete. Now shut the hell up and let me work. Youâve got a hole in your side and youâre losing blood. Understand me? Skipper? Do you hear me?â
Cotter heard, though the faces and lights had blurred to a soft and indistinguishable white haze. Was he dying? His thoughts touched lightly on Donna and Vickie, but they slipped away. Somehow, he couldnât hold onto the memory of their faces, and that raised a small stab of guilt. He tried to draw a breath, bracing against the pain . . . but nothing would come. He tasted blood, hot and thick and choking, weighing down his throat and chest. Couldnât breathe. . . .
His boys were all out safe. That was good. And the mission a success . . . what had it been? He tried to think, couldnât remember. Oh, yeah. Training mission, working with the Marines at Vieques, the big island east of Puerto Rico. It was nice there, a tropical paradise. Sunny beaches. Warm water. He loved Puerto Rico. Training session. How had he been hurt? Accidents happened, even in training . . . especially in SEAL training.
Goddamn, he was proud of his boys, every one of them. The best warriors, the best men in the whole God damned world.
The white haze was turning dark around the outside, like a tunnel. Funny. He couldnât even remember Donnaâs face, but he could see the SEALs heâd worked with and commanded over the years, every one of them, like they were right there with him.
âProud . . . of . . . you,â he said.
Damn he was proud of his boys. . . .
0306 hours (Zulu +3) Helo Cowboy One
âLieutenant!â Ellsworth was kneeling over the Stokes, both hands on the center of Cotterâs chest, pumping down on a heart that stubbornly refused to beat. âGod damn it, donât you die on me! Lieutenant!â
Roselli, at the L-Tâs head, had pulled off the O 2 mask at Docâs instructions and was holding an AMBU mask over Cotterâs bloody nose and mouth, squeezing the inflated bag to ventilate the Skipperâs lungs.
Doc kept pumping at the Skipperâs chest. âL-T! SEALs donât quit! They donât know how to quit! Theyâre too stupid to quit! Lieutenant!â
At last, though, Ellsworth slumped back on his haunches, a stricken look on his face. âGoddamnit,â he said, his voice empty. âGod damn it to hell !â
âYou did what you could, Doc,â MacKenzie said.
Roselli stared at the L-Tâs face, stunned. The Lieutenant couldnât be dead . . . he couldnât!
Abruptly, Ellsworth shook off Macâs hand and resumed pumping at Cotterâs heart, but Roselli already knew it was too late. They would keep working at him until they got him aboard a medevac at K-City, but it wasnât going to do one damned bit of good.
The Skipper was dead. Dead. Blown away by some half-assed rag-head who probably barely knew one end of a rifle from the other.
Roselli felt like he wanted to cry.
5
Friday, 6 May
0950 hours (Zuluâ5) SEAL Seven Administrative Headquarters Little Creek, Virginia
It was an informal hearing, though the two naval
âThe . . . men?â It was hard to speak, hard to make himself heard. Each breath was a small agony, and he wasnât sure Doc could hear above the background roar of the rotors.
Docâs face dipped lower, turning. âWhat was that, sir?â
âThe . . . the men. Get them . . . out. . . . â
âEverybody got out, Skipper. Youâre the only one who stopped a bullet. Why the frigginâ hell didnât you duck?â Docâs voice was light, bantering, but Cotter could hear the tightness behind the words. âDamn it, what kind of example is that for you to set for your men?â
âMission? . . .â
âAll three helos made it out, Skipper. Everybody made it out. Mission complete. Now shut the hell up and let me work. Youâve got a hole in your side and youâre losing blood. Understand me? Skipper? Do you hear me?â
Cotter heard, though the faces and lights had blurred to a soft and indistinguishable white haze. Was he dying? His thoughts touched lightly on Donna and Vickie, but they slipped away. Somehow, he couldnât hold onto the memory of their faces, and that raised a small stab of guilt. He tried to draw a breath, bracing against the pain . . . but nothing would come. He tasted blood, hot and thick and choking, weighing down his throat and chest. Couldnât breathe. . . .
His boys were all out safe. That was good. And the mission a success . . . what had it been? He tried to think, couldnât remember. Oh, yeah. Training mission, working with the Marines at Vieques, the big island east of Puerto Rico. It was nice there, a tropical paradise. Sunny beaches. Warm water. He loved Puerto Rico. Training session. How had he been hurt? Accidents happened, even in training . . . especially in SEAL training.
Goddamn, he was proud of his boys, every one of them. The best warriors, the best men in the whole God damned world.
The white haze was turning dark around the outside, like a tunnel. Funny. He couldnât even remember Donnaâs face, but he could see the SEALs heâd worked with and commanded over the years, every one of them, like they were right there with him.
âProud . . . of . . . you,â he said.
Damn he was proud of his boys. . . .
0306 hours (Zulu +3) Helo Cowboy One
âLieutenant!â Ellsworth was kneeling over the Stokes, both hands on the center of Cotterâs chest, pumping down on a heart that stubbornly refused to beat. âGod damn it, donât you die on me! Lieutenant!â
Roselli, at the L-Tâs head, had pulled off the O 2 mask at Docâs instructions and was holding an AMBU mask over Cotterâs bloody nose and mouth, squeezing the inflated bag to ventilate the Skipperâs lungs.
Doc kept pumping at the Skipperâs chest. âL-T! SEALs donât quit! They donât know how to quit! Theyâre too stupid to quit! Lieutenant!â
At last, though, Ellsworth slumped back on his haunches, a stricken look on his face. âGoddamnit,â he said, his voice empty. âGod damn it to hell !â
âYou did what you could, Doc,â MacKenzie said.
Roselli stared at the L-Tâs face, stunned. The Lieutenant couldnât be dead . . . he couldnât!
Abruptly, Ellsworth shook off Macâs hand and resumed pumping at Cotterâs heart, but Roselli already knew it was too late. They would keep working at him until they got him aboard a medevac at K-City, but it wasnât going to do one damned bit of good.
The Skipper was dead. Dead. Blown away by some half-assed rag-head who probably barely knew one end of a rifle from the other.
Roselli felt like he wanted to cry.
5
Friday, 6 May
0950 hours (Zuluâ5) SEAL Seven Administrative Headquarters Little Creek, Virginia
It was an informal hearing, though the two naval
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