| From: | shadowtk@*********.com (Paul J. Adam) |
|---|---|
| Subject: | The Wake of the Hurricane |
| Date: | Fri Nov 9 16:10:01 2001 |
>>>>>[Only a few left now, sir.
+++++begin video
"Jason?" Irish asks, grousing and painful, as he clutches at the torn
flesh of his legs.
Lynch drops down to sit beside him, taking a medkit and a roll of bright
steel medical tools from his web gear. "Yeah, yeah, I know, next time
this happens I should leave you home for a quiet life. Quit yer whining,
you're alive aren't you?" Lynch examines the Dwarf's legs, pauses. "Lie
still and relax, this is gonna hurt like a sonofabitch." The words are
cover for half-a-dozen doses of medication: painkiller, No-Shock,
antibiotics, targeted coagulants and other heal-the-wounded-hero drugs.
"What's going to hurt?" Irish suddenly howls in pain, as Lynch locks the
haemostat clamp around the bullet buried in the Dwarf's knee, wrenches
it free of the shattered bone with a nauseating squeal.
"_That_ is."
"You're right. That _does_ fucking hurt." Irish's fingers are buried in
the hard earth but his leg is rigidly still and his tone is almost
conversational, as Lynch pulls the deformed bullet out of the wound it
ripped, spraying coagulant and combat antibiotic over the torn flesh
once it's out.
"Out now. Want it?"
"Yep. I _earned_ that." Irish reaches back, takes the flattened bullet
(still wet with his own blood) from Lynch. "Don't try going into
elective surgery, okay? Your bedside manner sucks."
"That's the only one that stopped. The others went through clean. You'll
need some reconstruction." Lynch is busily giving the other wounds in
Irish's legs similar but less painful treatment, then spraying them with
foam bandages: then he goes to work checking the smaller shrapnel wounds
in the Dwarf's head and arms; ignoring most of them as non-urgent that
just need sprayfoam to slow the leaks, but stapling one nasty scalp cut
closed (Irish not even wincing as the biopolymer clamps pierce flesh and
pull the wound closed)
"No shit, Sherlock. How bad am I?"
"Just the usual for tungsten-core .201 boat-tail sabots and grenade
shrapnel. Messy, nasty, but fixable." Lynch finishes his emergency work.
"You'll be okay, amigo, just some more pretty scars to show the ladies."
"You?" Irish asks.
"Bites and gouges and some clean bullet wounds. Plus lots of contusions
and bruises where they gnawed on me through the armour. They were
shooting more at you than me, and we've got people leaking to death
here, and I can walk while you can't." Lynch uses his rifle as a lever
to get himself back on his feet, staggers over to Harold and Jules.
The huge tiger half-heartedly snarls at Lynch, as the Marine approaches
the sprawled human. The bullet holes through torso and neck tell their
own story, even before you look at the bluish pallor of skin and the
stillness of Jules' chest.
Still, Lynch puts his medkit's sensor in place on Julian
Clarke-Jervoise's throat, and administers the "heroic stimulants" - ten
milligrams of Coraxine and thirty micrograms of Ketathenol-3 - the kit
suggests. Seals the torn trachea and chest wall with sprayfoam and
clamps, begins the last-ditch life support of ten chest compressions
(synthetic heartbeat) and two lungfuls of exhaled-air respiration.
After five cycles of CPR, Lynch checks his medkit: nothing. Temperature
dropping, blood chemistry going from bad to horrific, he's not applying
life support but just maltreating a cadaver. He looks the tiger in its
golden eyes, starts to say "I'm sorry-"
Harold Holden, shapeshifter and six hundred pounds of Bengal tiger,
makes a noise that's all bass reverberation and bared white fangs, and
Lynch holds those eyes a few moments more... then dials the medkit
again. A setting simply called 'Human Emergency', and it makes a trauma
patch look like "take two aspirin and call me in the morning".
Forty milligrams of Coraxine - the milspec medical computer's entire
remaining supply - and ten full milligrams of Ketathenol-5. Double doses
of synthetic adrenaline and endorphine analogue. No-Shock,
vasoconstrictor, antipyretic, three different coagulation enhancers,
metabolic decelerant... a genuine kill-or-cure cocktail of pharmacology
for a dying man.
Five seconds after squirting this monstrous chemical cocktail into
Jules' neck, and demanding six chest compressions from Lynch to start it
circulating, the medkit dumps most of its battery charge into Jules's
chest, a one-shot last-ditch defibrillator.
The traces of heart rate, blood pressure and respiration suddenly jump
from zero to merely critical values. Jules' blood oxygen level begins to
rise towards a level that might at least sustain life for a while, as he
begins to breathe for himself.
Holden pads forwards three paces, licks Lynch's hand once with a wide
red tongue that could strip rust off a battleship's hull, then goes back
to nursing his maimed friend. Jules is still technically alive... for
the moment.
Lynch lurches towards Ironguard, Storm and Void: veers away when Storm
waves him off, the trio all hurt but all conscious and in no immediate
danger of death, busy trying to patch each others' wounds. Instead he
goes to Guilas, joining Bungle. He's not the only person providing
medical care, but he's focussing on his tasks at the expense of
background detail.
Edward Bungralevskii is trying to interpret what his medkit's 'expert
system' is telling him and trying to keep the horribly wounded mobster
alive. Herve Guilas is as badly wounded as Jules, breathing in bubbling
gasps with incredibly red and frothy blood seething out of his chest on
every exhalation, and as Lynch hauls himself up Bungle turns pleading
eyes on him. _Save him, don't let him die, do *something*!_
Guilas, by contrast, takes a painful breath. "Minnie?" he manages to
say.
"Alive." Lynch replies, with more confidence than might be justified.
Minnie is down and not moving much, but Bob Laconi is by her side and
busy with his medkit and not calling for help. "We won."
Guilas smiles and closes his eyes. "Gracias, _jefe_."
"Is he..." Bungle asks, tremulous.
"If you live thirty seconds past the end of the firefight you're
salvageable." Lynch takes the medkit from Bungle's hand (his own is
showing apologetic 'EXPENDED' warnings) and like Jules he gives Guilas a
heroic jolt of Coraxine. "Fucking incredible how much punishment your
body can soak up and survive." He's talking too loudly, too clearly, for
his words to be meant just for Bungle. "Anyone still alive now, they'll
live. Long as they get to a decent hospital within a day or so, and...
wait up... yeah! Joseph Lister Hospital, Pretoria. Ready and waiting for
us, and damn good on gunshot wounds and explosive trauma. We'll be there
inside twelve hours. Herve's going to make it."
Bungle is giving Lynch a horrified look, as the half-Sioux mercenary
works on the worst of Guilas's wounds. "You're just saying that tooo
_drek!_"
Lynch keeps the Predator automatic aimed at Bungle's face, blood
dripping from his wounded right arm, as he continues to work with his
left and explains, in amiable polite tones, "Because it's true. Mr
Guilas is in no worse shape than Mr Clarke-Jervoise was, and Mr
Clarke-Jervoise is in fine form." Another lie, if the medkit traces are
correct: Jules is currently clinging to his life by a couple of
chewed-upon fingernails. "Herve will be fine." After all, Guilas can't
see just how horribly near death Jules is, and can't see the half-dozen
perforations of his own chest cavity that Lynch is busily trying to seal
off. Since Bungle seems to have stopped saying how badly hurt the
mobster is, the Marine shoves the pistol back into his holster and
carries on trying to save Guilas's life with both hands.
"I wish I was a vampire." Lynch mutters, taking a foil package from his
medical pouch and ripping it open. "Then I'd *like* doing this." He
pushes the wide-bore needle into one of the wound tracks, through the
drying bubbles of pulmonary blood, and sucks on the attached plastic
tube: spitting out five mouthfuls of bright-red frothy liquid before he
withdraws the needle, realising that Herve isn't breathing, his lungs
are collapsing and his heart's stopped. Lynch starts CPR, but gives up
when he sees how many holes the man's still leaking bright arterial
blood from.
"You did good, Don Guilas." Lynch shakes his head, retrieving the
medkit. <It was an honour to fight alongside you, for you are a true
warrior and you earned renown today. You lived and died bravely, and you
will not be quickly forgotten.> The words are said in Lakota, and sound
like both a familiar refrain and a matter of personal honour.
"What..." Bungle asks, before gulping down another jolt from his
inhaler.
"Some of my family say, that lets his spirit go free faster. He's dead,
Edward, we lost him. He's dead." Lynch leans over and closes Guilas's
eyes with remarkable, formal, gentleness; then places the Mafioso's
stolen, blood-splattered HK227 across the dead man's chest and carefully
closes the dead hands around it; even taking a few moments to press
Herve's shattered right hand back into a semblance of normality. "Semper
fidelis, Herve Guilas."
The Marine looks around, sees a shortage of other urgent casualties not
being attended, and begins to clean and dress the two wounds in his own
legs (uncomplicated bullet wounds, except that one has an ugly stellate
exit that's leaking mildly impressive but non-lethal amounts of blood
and lymph). The third significant injury is through his right forearm,
bleeding copiously but neither immediately dangerous nor promptly
crippling, and the holes in his thigh are impairing his mobility-
"Jason?" A secure radio message, on a personal coded frequency only
half-a-dozen people know.
"You okay?"
"I must be, or you wouldn't be over there. Just checked Frog over, he'll
be okay once the medics staple him back together. Can you make that
ladder?"
Lynch looks at the casualties around him, at his own wounds (nonfatal
but still nasty). "Maybe, but it'll hurt. Can you?"
"Easily. Whatever they drugged me with, is wearing off fast. I think I
and the Ork kid are the only ones with whole skins here."
"Who's up the... shit. Cypher! How is he?"
"Breathing and still warm. Hurt. Can't see more than that from here.
I'll see what I can do. Do we have transport?"
"A Herk on final at Antsirannana with two five-ton trucks, a section of
Rebels and a medical detachment as cargo, and enough fuel to make Nelson
Mandela International." Lynch replies. "V-12's crew running interference
with a couple of attack drones: if we were still fighting in five
minutes' time, we'd have had them for fire support.. We're on our way
out of here in thirty minutes, with skilled medics and some good troops
guarding the gate. I'd have preferred riding out of this cesspit by air,
but our bird stopped a lot of rounds and I can *smell* that she's
leaking fuel from here."
"Is Cypher wearing a harness?"
"Don't think so. Use mine." Lynch unsnaps his combat harness, taking the
last two magazines of .338 out before he hands it to Lilith as she
reaches him (still unclothed except for dappled fur, in her disturbingly
beautiful intermediate - natural? - shape) and passes him to climb the
water tower with remarkable speed and grace; her long, white-tipped tail
lashing for balance. "Len? How's la Dona?" he asks.
"Unconscious, but her vitals are good, _jefe_." Len is crouched by
Minnie's side, holding his Uzi and ready for trouble. "Herve?"
"Herve didn't make it, Len."
The mobster looks down for a moment: he and Herve had worked together
for years. "Fuck. That sucks big-time."
"Yeah." Lynch hesitantly reaches out, grips Laconi's shoulder for a
moment, then slings his rifle. "La Dona okay?"
"She's breathing. Nothing obvious gonna kill her."
"You stay with her and keep her safe." Lynch flicks a glance back -
Lilith is already on her way down the water tower's ladder, Cypher
hanging a few feet below her, dangling from Lynch's combat harness: a
quick check and a themographic measurement confirms that whatever the
sniper-assassin's other woes, he's alive. "We've got a ride out coming
in an hour or less. We've got to hold until then."
"I got it, _jefe_." Laconi nods coldly. His closest friend dead, his
Dona down unconscious, himself trapped amidst horror and madness, still
he has a job to do and he's not going to fail.
+++++pause video
+++++shift POV
+++++resume video
Lynch sits on the hillside. To his side sits the magnificent bulk of
Table Mountain. But he's sitting looking out to sea, watching the sun
sink into the Atlantic, cleaning a pistol without looking at it - at
least, as far as can be told: the black mirrored sunglasses hiding his
eyes.
"Colonel?" Minnie sticks to a formal note. Lynch turns, sees her, rises
to his feet.
"Dona Descabiere."
"I thought you'd want to hear early. The doctors confirm Lilith's going
to be okay. Some toxicity issues from being held chemically comatose for
months, but her metabolism adapted and reacted. There's a doctor in
Bethesda who claims to be able to help-"
"June Rains-At-Sunset?"
"That's it."
"She's not kidding. Move Lilith to DC, quiet and careful. Don't use
Quinn, she's almost certainly still being watched." Lynch draws one of
his pistols, starts sliding long, lethal .357 Magnum cartridges into the
Python's six chambers. "Get Lilith in _very_ discreetly."
"Consider it done. You?"
"I'm either going to take down Ernang, or die trying." Lynch snaps the
Colt's cylinder shut with a practiced flick of his wrist, slides it back
into its shoulder holster. "If I don't make it, you keep the pressure on
him."
"Done."
"Thank you." The black lenses reflect Minnie's face for a moment. "I
told you who'd listen, who'd help and who to avoid around the Hill and
in the District of Corruption?"
"A couple of times, yes." The mobster sounds amused, and not ungrateful.
"Then I've done all I can do for you, and you can't help me any more."
Lynch, too, has a tone of amiability in his voice, under layers of
fatigue and fury. "How are your people?"
"Clarke-Jervoise should pull through. Guilas didn't. Bob was hiding
three bullet wounds through his gut that he didn't think were
thatimportant... he'll live, they caught it in time. Why did he _do_
that?"
"Because he believed what he was fighting for, was more important than
himself. You make someone believe that, they'll move Heaven and Earth
until they die. Unless you betray them." The black-mirrored lenses face
Minnie, broken only by the tiny 'Ray-Ban' logo by the frame. "You get
your people home, you take care of them, you explain what they did here.
I'll see if I can get them some recognition."
"And you?" Descabiere asks.
"I'm going to go back and clean house." Lynch says with calm,
frightening finality. "I was told to handle this my way, and handle it
without official assistance. It's not handled yet. If they stop me...
pick up the pieces and back up Lilith, and Quinn, and anyone else who
rallies. Until then, look after your people, Minnie, 'cause Ernang's got
friends on high and they may just decide to get their asses off that
fence and come gunning for you if I don't win."
"And you?"
"Every step I've taken, I knew what I was risking. I'm part of the
system, part of the problem, maybe part of the solution. If they kill
me, assess the situation, react and carry on, and be afraid of what
Lilith and Quinn may do."
"Lilith _and_ Quinn?" Minnie can't resist asking.
"Mind your own business, Dona." Lynch grins behind the black-mirrored
sunglasses.
+++++end video
Well... I guess Colonel Lynch just confirmed premeditation on his list
of offences.
Is he going to be okay?]<<<<<
-- SSgt T R Porter <21:52:26/11-09-62>
Data Extraction & Recovery
Cyberspace Special Forces
