bird.”
“Don’t I need a weapon?” he asked.
“Shit,” Armstrong said, grinning, “you wouldn’t know what to do with one if you had one.”
The chopper touched ground. “OK, MOVE OUT!” Peterson screamed, and in tactical formation, they all jumped out of the Black Hawk.
The team broke off into four directions, establishing a 50 yard perimeter around the chopper. As Peterson jogged in the early morning through the grass, it felt good to have Sharon at his side again. He tested his gun for the zillionth time, felt it at his hip. He kept his eyes fixed on that patch of woods, and he knew that Sharon was doing the same.
He looked in all directions, and saw his team fanned out, as ordered. They were tuned to perfection.
Expect the unexpected , he told himself. A lesson well-learned.
His sixth sense for danger was acting up. There was no reason for it, but there it was. It was gnawing away at him. The hairs rose on the back of his neck.
And that only meant one thing: trouble.
*
Spooky stepped out of the chopper with the others, but unlike everybody else, when his foot hit the ground, he was struck by a jolt of pain. It was his side. No one else knew it, but he’d been bit. And bad.
Back there, when they first took off, in that firefight. One of those things, just a child, had gotten behind him. When he was shooting another one—probably its mother—point-blank in the head, it had crept around him and bit him right in the side, right on his love handle. It had hurt like hell and back. He’d spun and elbowed the little bastard right between the eyes, then shot him dead. But little good that did him now.
Spooky had hoped that during the chopper ride the pain would go away. He’d snuck pain killers, and, during the chaos before they lifted off, had injected himself with morphine.
But it hadn’t worked. Instead, it had grown worse by the second. He felt his side stiffening up, like rigor mortis. He never knew anything could hurt this bad.
That’s why he’d fall asleep that back there, in the chopper. It had been getting harder and harder for him to keep his eyes open. He felt himself getting cold, and sweat trickled down his back.
A few times during the flight Tag had asked him if he was OK. He probably sensed that something was up. Spooky had just nodded, looked away, and popped another pain killer.
He couldn’t tell them. Of course he couldn’t. Dr. Washington said that people who are bit become infected. If they found out, they’d have killed him on the spot.
Spooky hadn’t known what to do. But this, this landing at the airfield, was a godsend. It gave him the chance he needed to get some privacy, to check the wound, to try to dress it. With just a few minutes of privacy he could really take a close look, and give it whatever treatment it needed. Maybe, just maybe, he could pull through, alive.
“All right!” Tag suddenly announced with a cry of joy. “This one’s good!”
Tag had checked pump after pump, and had finally found one that worked. Tag excitedly hit the lever, and ran with the long hose, five, ten, fifteen feet, to the chopper. He began to fuel it up.
“Did you check the leak line yet?” Tag screamed over the rotors. He’d left the rotors running, just in case they needed to take off quick.
Spook had meant to do it. In fact he would have loved to do it, as he loved all things technological. But his head just wasn’t clear enough. He was having a hard time concentrating, and sweat was pouring down into his eyes. He needed to get some more drugs in him, and fast.
“I’ll check in a minute,” Spooky answered, breaking into a trot and hurrying past Tag. “I need to take a piss. I’m just going to head off to the hangar.”
“What the fuck you talking about?” Tag yelled back, angry, as he filled up the bird. “You got to check the leak!”
Spooky felt bad about it, but he couldn’t wait another second. The pain was just too bad. So he took off for the hangar,
“Don’t I need a weapon?” he asked.
“Shit,” Armstrong said, grinning, “you wouldn’t know what to do with one if you had one.”
The chopper touched ground. “OK, MOVE OUT!” Peterson screamed, and in tactical formation, they all jumped out of the Black Hawk.
The team broke off into four directions, establishing a 50 yard perimeter around the chopper. As Peterson jogged in the early morning through the grass, it felt good to have Sharon at his side again. He tested his gun for the zillionth time, felt it at his hip. He kept his eyes fixed on that patch of woods, and he knew that Sharon was doing the same.
He looked in all directions, and saw his team fanned out, as ordered. They were tuned to perfection.
Expect the unexpected , he told himself. A lesson well-learned.
His sixth sense for danger was acting up. There was no reason for it, but there it was. It was gnawing away at him. The hairs rose on the back of his neck.
And that only meant one thing: trouble.
*
Spooky stepped out of the chopper with the others, but unlike everybody else, when his foot hit the ground, he was struck by a jolt of pain. It was his side. No one else knew it, but he’d been bit. And bad.
Back there, when they first took off, in that firefight. One of those things, just a child, had gotten behind him. When he was shooting another one—probably its mother—point-blank in the head, it had crept around him and bit him right in the side, right on his love handle. It had hurt like hell and back. He’d spun and elbowed the little bastard right between the eyes, then shot him dead. But little good that did him now.
Spooky had hoped that during the chopper ride the pain would go away. He’d snuck pain killers, and, during the chaos before they lifted off, had injected himself with morphine.
But it hadn’t worked. Instead, it had grown worse by the second. He felt his side stiffening up, like rigor mortis. He never knew anything could hurt this bad.
That’s why he’d fall asleep that back there, in the chopper. It had been getting harder and harder for him to keep his eyes open. He felt himself getting cold, and sweat trickled down his back.
A few times during the flight Tag had asked him if he was OK. He probably sensed that something was up. Spooky had just nodded, looked away, and popped another pain killer.
He couldn’t tell them. Of course he couldn’t. Dr. Washington said that people who are bit become infected. If they found out, they’d have killed him on the spot.
Spooky hadn’t known what to do. But this, this landing at the airfield, was a godsend. It gave him the chance he needed to get some privacy, to check the wound, to try to dress it. With just a few minutes of privacy he could really take a close look, and give it whatever treatment it needed. Maybe, just maybe, he could pull through, alive.
“All right!” Tag suddenly announced with a cry of joy. “This one’s good!”
Tag had checked pump after pump, and had finally found one that worked. Tag excitedly hit the lever, and ran with the long hose, five, ten, fifteen feet, to the chopper. He began to fuel it up.
“Did you check the leak line yet?” Tag screamed over the rotors. He’d left the rotors running, just in case they needed to take off quick.
Spook had meant to do it. In fact he would have loved to do it, as he loved all things technological. But his head just wasn’t clear enough. He was having a hard time concentrating, and sweat was pouring down into his eyes. He needed to get some more drugs in him, and fast.
“I’ll check in a minute,” Spooky answered, breaking into a trot and hurrying past Tag. “I need to take a piss. I’m just going to head off to the hangar.”
“What the fuck you talking about?” Tag yelled back, angry, as he filled up the bird. “You got to check the leak!”
Spooky felt bad about it, but he couldn’t wait another second. The pain was just too bad. So he took off for the hangar,
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