The Sixth Martyr, page 19
part #1 of Alpha Squad Series
He descended, dropping lightly on the balls of his feet, and listening to the shouts of the men who were drawing nearer. He raced away; dragging out the rifle from under his scrubs, and went from room to room. The hospital wards were abandoned, with just the remains of beds, twisted metal, the mattresses long gone, probably stolen by the locals. At last he came to a small office at the end of the corridor, and the door was still intact.
He darted inside and pushed the door partially closed. He crouched behind an upturned desk. Gun up, safety off, and prepared to sell his life dearly if that's what it came to. He had little time. Their footsteps and shouts became louder as they searched the floor for the intruder, and then the door pushed open. A man looked inside the office, and from below the desk Tyler could just make out his face. He was wide eyed, scared of the battle raging outside, and scared he was about to be gunned down by some mysterious intruder. Unsurprisingly, after a few seconds perfunctory glancing around, he saw nothing and didn’t want to see anything. The Talib backed out of the room and shouted something to his comrades. After a brief exchange, the footsteps went away, and he was alone.
He waited no more than a few minutes. Time wasn't on their side, and soon the casualties would begin to arrive. Their lack of knowledge would become apparent, and execution would follow. They were here to find Junior and Maryam, and the longer they waited, the more the battle would rage. They’d be vulnerable to the heavy fire from either side, Coalition missiles, bombs and bullets, a stray bomb; or the Taliban, if they got them first. He ran back along the corridor, found a window, and climbed outside to the street.
There were no enemy fighters in view, and he ran around to the front door, checked his rifle for a final time, and stepped inside the building. The first thing he encountered was two Talibs crouched on the floor of the hospital lobby. Chatting to each other, like the battle outside was a world away. They saw the astonishing sight of a Westerner in surgical scrubs holding an assault rifle pointed in their direction. Their jaws dropped open, and they grabbed for their guns. Too late, he pulled the trigger and killed them with two quick bursts.
Tyler ran to pick up their weapons, two AKMs, the newer, 7.62mm Russian assault rifle variant of the Kalashnikov. His ammunition was already running low for the M4, and they had a lot of ground to cover. A lot of killing to do, and they'd need plenty of bullets to do it. He slung the M4 over his shoulder, tucked an AKM under each arm, selected full auto, and thumbed off the safety. Then he kicked open the swing door that led toward the operating theatre and went inside the corridor. Several men were racing toward him to check out the reason for the gunfire. He pulled both triggers, cutting them down with withering bursts of fire.
Four down and plenty to go, he was tempted to select burst mode, but he needed the weight of fire. Shock and awe, those were the factors he'd rely on, and he plunged along the corridor. The fighters recovered fast, screaming warnings to each other, but in the dim corridor, they still hadn't worked out they were facing a mortal enemy. He took full advantage of the confusion. He pulled the triggers and kept them pulled, sending a storm of bullets into their midst. Men tumbled to the floor, some dead, some screaming in agony, but he kept firing until the firing pins clicked on empty. Left with no choice, he automatically went to reload the rifles. It almost killed him.
The hostiles were no rookies, and the moment they saw what he was doing, they brought up their guns. He threw himself through a nearby door. A half dozen guns thundered, and bullets shattered the air where less than a second before he'd been standing. With no time to complete the reload, he dropped the weapons on the floor and swung his M4 into his hands. When the gunfire eased, he poked his head out. They were jabbering to each other, probably working out whether they’d killed him, and he took full advantage. The muzzle of his M4 pointed in the direction of the enemy, standing meters away. He fired, and two more men went down, but the gun was empty. He ducked back as the surviving four reacted and shot back in fury. They were racing toward him now, and he had two seconds at best to defend himself. He scooped up the first AK, ejected the empty magazine, and brought out a spare. But something was wrong, it wasn't as heavy as he’d have expected, and a quick glanced showed him it was empty. The owner had failed to replace the bullets when he’d last fired it.
With no time to check the other magazine, he ran across the room and took a flying leap behind a steel filing cabinet, just as the hostiles burst inside. He hunkered down as the first storm of bullets flailed against the cabinet. By good fortune, it was full, for the lead would have penetrated the thin steel. Instead, it punched into the thick bundles of documents, and for a tiny space of time, he was safe. The firing stopped, and they walked inside the room. They were halfway across the floor when another storm of gunfire erupted. Men screamed, men shouted, but in vain. Hammett had carried out the second part of the plan and come in behind them, blazing away with his assault rifle, in a brief but intense fusillade. Then it stopped, and everything was silent.
"It's okay. They're all dead."
He climbed to his feet, grateful to see the friendly faces.
"I thought I was done for then. Thank God you didn't wait another couple of seconds."
A shrug. "We could have come sooner," Murphy grinned, "But we decided to make you sweat for a bit, Tyler. Just in case you'd forgotten what life was like back in the old days."
He grimaced. "I haven't forgotten. Listen; there are bodies outside in the foyer. We need to get them out of sight before the next bunch of hostiles arrives. We can bring them in here."
They dragged the corpses into the room and piled them in a corner. Diaz and Murphy stripped them of their weapons and ammunition, and they carried the ordnance back to the OR. When he walked in, Sarah rushed into his arms, her eyes wet. "Joe, I thought you were dead."
"Not just yet," he grinned, "But we still have to finish what we came here to do. To find Junior and Maryam."
“And Akram," Javed murmured.
He briefly wondered why the boy hadn't yet given up on his childhood friend. They'd been close once, but Akram had turned and gone over to the enemy. Didn't he understand the bigger boy had changed? He was no longer the happy-go-lucky kid he'd once known and made plans with. The kid was a full-fledged member of the death cult, and any warmth or human affection he'd ever shown had vanished. His soul was black, and in Tyler's experience, it was unlikely to ever change. Still, he'd agreed to help him, and he threw the kid a smile.
"Javed, we'll do our best to find Akram. Okay?"
“Thank you, Mr. Tyler.”
Should I warn him about his friend? That he’s gone for good, he’ll never change? No, don’t put that on his young shoulders along with everything else.
They took what they needed of the captured weapons and prepared to leave. With the guards dead there was nothing to stop them. Except as Sarah led the way and pushed out of the room, she immediately pulled back inside.
"Enemy fighters, coming through the front, lots of them. Hide the weapons."
They tucked the weapons out of sight and stood in a group around the operating table, doing their best to look innocent. Moments later, footsteps rushed down the corridor, and the door crashed open. Taliban poured into the room, in pairs.
Each two men carried a casualty between them, and they were no ordinary casualties. Screaming men, blood pouring from a multitude of wounds. The nightmare had arrived, the one they had no means of preparing for. The hostiles were expecting them to perform medical and surgical miracles on the badly wounded men. They laid the first casualty on the operating table and snarled a few words in Pashtu. There was no debate about their meaning.
‘Our comrades are wounded, fix them.’
"What do we do?" Sarah gestured at the wounded man on the table, and a fighter was screaming at them to get started, "We don't have anything, no instruments, no drugs, nothing. And even if we did, we wouldn't know how to use them. What do we do?"
"We improvise," Tyler said.
He picked up one of the blunted and bloodied scalpels they'd used earlier to kill the guards and approached the table. The wounded man was opening and closing his mouth, and his breath came in short, ragged pants. He pulled aside his shirt, and the wound was terrible. Probably inflicted by a chunk of shrapnel from an exploding shell, it had sliced through his belly, and inside, his coiled intestines were trying to push through the hole. "We need to start stitching this man up."
"I'll see what I can find," Sarah said quickly. She pulled open cupboards and peered inside. She came back with a despairing look on her face. "There's nothing. What can we do?"
The guy was close to death, and if it hadn't been for the presence of armed Taliban in the room, he'd have put a bullet in his head and put him out of his misery. He gestured at the Talib who appeared to be in charge.
“We need drugs and sterile surgical instruments to deal with this. Otherwise, he will die."
The man gave him a hostile glare, looked down at the wounded man on the table, and looked up. "You are doctors. You will do what is necessary to save his life."
He shook his head. "You don't understand. We have nothing. No sharp scalpels, no dressings, no plasma, or sterile instruments. Without them, there is nothing we can do."
His reward was another fierce glare. The man's eyes narrowed, and he bared his teeth, showing several of them were cheap gold. "You don't understand, American. Either you deal with his wound, or I will shoot you. There are no other choices, so do it now!"
As if to emphasize the point, he stepped back two paces, and leveled the muzzle of his rifle at Tyler. The other fighters stiffened, and suddenly there were a half-dozen rifles pointing at them. Their weapons were tucked under their scrubs. If the shooting started, it would be a bloodbath. Desperately, Tyler tried to play for time.
"Look, okay, we’ll handle it." He held up his hands in a gesture for him to back off, "We'll do what we can, but we can't work with guns pointed at us. Lower the weapons, and we’ll make a start."
The man grunted assent, and the gun barrels dropped. He waited for the others to join him around the table, and looked down helplessly at the man screaming in agony. He looked at them and spoke quietly, "What can we do, all we have are a few blunt scalpels? At the very least, we need twine for sutures. Sarah, you got any ideas? You don't carry a needle and thread around with you?"
She shook her head. "No, of course not, but there must be something we can use."
Hammett took a swift glance at the Talibs, who'd retreated to stand just inside the door. "Only one thing to do. Sneak out the guns, and shoot the bastards. It's us or them."
Tyler measured angles and looked at the hostiles. One or two were giving them hard, impatient glances, and he doubted they'd wait much longer. They were out of options.
"Okay, we'll huddle around the table like we’re working on him, and Tony, you go first. Sneak a gun out when they can't see what you’re doing. Switch places with Chris so he can draw, and when you have two guns, blast them. That’ll keep them busy while the rest of us draw and fire."
He nodded. “Say the word, Joe.”
He bent to the wounded man and held up the scalpel, as if he could do something to help him with the ancient surgical instrument. He decided he could do something with it, like slice through the man’s neck, and finish his agony. Which would also get them killed. He kept his head looking down but squinted at the Talibs by the door. They were watching with some interest, and he felt forced to take some action. He sliced into the mass of intestine unwinding from the belly like tangled rope. He was killing him, but he was dead anyway. Maybe it would hasten his end, but as blood and tissue flew from where he'd made the cut, the hostiles looked away, and he glanced at Tony. "Now.”
Slowly, so as not to attract attention, Hammett reached under his scrubs and pulled out the M4. Murphy did the same, and they were facing away from the enemy, holding their guns, ready to spin around and open fire. And then disaster happened. One of the Afghans became suspicious, took several rapid steps across the room, saw the guns, and screamed a warning.
At the same time, he was bringing up his assault rifle to open fire. Hammett and Murphy moved fast, spinning toward the enemy. They brought up their rifles and began shooting. Sarah saw the danger from the Taliban standing closest to her, wrapped her hands around the barrel of his rifle, and wrenched it downward. As he pulled the trigger, the weapon fired and bullets ricocheted around the room. Javed knelt and grabbed the man's legs, and while he was struggling to free himself, Tyler swiveled with the bloodied scalpel in his hand, plunging it through his eyes. He pressed down hard, all the way, until he reached the soft, rubbery tissue of the brain. He eased the pressure, and the man was still.
Joe kicked the body away and reached for his rifle. They dove behind the operating table. The enemy were spraying bullets and moving to the side to get a clear shot. A man appeared in his sights, and Joe put two bullets into him. An outbreak of firing came from further away. It sounded like the front of the hospital, suggesting more hostiles were flocking in, retreating from the attack.
"We have to do something to get out," Sarah said, "They’re everywhere."
"Keep firing. That's all we can do." The man on the operating table screamed a final cry of agony as his body jerked when a burst of machine gun bullets smashed into him. It was uncertain whether it was a mercy killing or an accident, but the man who'd fired had emptied his weapon. Joe poked the barrel of his gun over the body, took aim, and popped him with another two shots. He ducked down again as a fusillade of automatic fire came back at him.
"We can't hold them," he shouted, “Tony, we'll have to rush them."
"Rush them!" He sounded incredulous, “There are twelve, maybe fifteen of them out there. The moment we show ourselves from behind cover, we’re dead. Dammit, Tyler, how many bullets do you want in your body? You’ll die of lead poisoning.”
"We don't have a choice."
"Then we'll die."
“We all die sometime. Get ready. On the count of three, one, two.." He could sense them tensing, preparing to make that last desperate charge, and at least go down fighting. He never got to three. The door crashed open, and men poured in. Soldiers, and they were blazing away with M-16s, scything down the enemy in a hurricane of gunfire. In a moment of astonishment, he recognized American infantry in their distinctive Kevlar helmets and camo uniforms. The unmistakable shapes and high rate of fire of M-16 assault rifles. The Talibs went down like wheat before a combine harvester, and they never stood a chance. Less than twenty seconds of concentrated fire, and all that remained was a sprawl of dead bodies heaped on the floor. An officer pushed his way into the room behind them, almost hidden beneath the oversize Fritz helmet, dark glasses, and communications headset. A she, not a he, a woman, and she stopped before the table. They stood up slowly. She swept them with her concerned eyes.
"What’s going on here? Are you surgeons?”
Tyler was face-to-face with Major Pat Bryant, of the United States Army Medical Corps. The Major they’d prevented from running into the roadside bomb. She did a double take.
"You! I know you.”
“Yeah, me.”
"Mister, I didn’t take you for a physician. But I’m still glad we were able to get here in time.” She stared at him in puzzlement and lowered the big Browning HiPower in her right hand.
He quickly explained how they'd used the UN medical uniforms as a disguise to get them into the city, and she nodded her understanding.
"Yeah, I get that, but why come to the city at all? Even a fool knows this is now a war zone, and the battle isn't going to be over anytime soon. I did warn you last time we met."
"The Taliban are still holding her son, Junior.” He indicated to Sarah, “together with this boy's sister. We have to find them."
Major Bryant inspected the nurse closely and frowned. "Did you say boy?"
"It's the best we could do. There was nothing else that fit."
She nodded, smiling at Javed's squirming embarrassment. "I take it you still intend to search for these young people?"
"Yes, we do." Sarah's voice was firm, "He's my son. We don't care about any war zone. All that matters is we find him and the others before they kill them. Or before they die during the attack."
"Very well." She was thoughtful for a few moments, "I'll tell you what, we have a headquarters medical unit parked outside, and I'm carrying spare uniforms and helmets. I suggest you borrow some so you at least look like American soldiers. It’s less likely to get you killed. At least by blue on blue." She meant ‘friendly’ fire.
"It's appreciated."
They followed the Major out of the room and left the hospital by the main door. The command vehicles were parked half a block away, and she instructed a corporal to find uniforms for them all. He looked dubious as he eyed Javed.
"What about the girl, the short nurse? I don't know if we'd have any to fit her."
"I'm a boy," Javed scowled.
He looked at him for several seconds and nodded. "That's lucky, my friend. I can tell you now; you make one hell of an ugly girl. I’ll see what I can do.”
Ten minutes later, they changed into combat pants and jackets and pulled on Kevlar helmets. Major Bryant had gone to call in the presence of friendlies on the command net, and she returned with passes written out to identify them.
"Where do you intend to start?"
He shrugged. "I don't have a clue. It's a big city, so I guess we’ll start in the center, which is sure to be where they base their command headquarters."
She frowned. "Maybe so, but let me tell you, but if you use the open streets, you won't get more than a couple of blocks. If our infantry doesn’t get you, the artillery will. If they miss, and you manage to avoid the airstrikes, the Taliban will finish you off. They have snipers everywhere.”
"What you suggest?"
“Go through the houses. Our intel informed us the defenders have knocked through from wall-to-wall between the houses. You can go from one end of the city to the other almost without showing yourselves in the open. Just look for the fresh holes smashed through the masonry, and follow them through. But watch for enemy fire, we have a long way to go before this is over."
