Under Fire: The Admiral (11 page)

Shouts and gunfire bursts came nearer,
reverberating. Pinpointing origin of fire was impossible. The five
men hidden in the jungle were in extreme danger. Based on her
experience traffickers didn’t give up easily. They fought until
they couldn’t fight anymore. Then ran, living to fight another day.
In the jungle, at night, they’d do both. Gemma moved off Ben. “Get
up, be ready.” He said nothing and crouched gripping the branch.
She freed the edges of tarp to facilitate a quick exit and
positioned the machete near her feet. Her hand went back to the
handle twice, memorizing the location. With the Ruger firmly in
hand, she fixed her gaze through the slit and into the jungle.

When she first caught the sound she thought
it was wishful thinking. Seconds later there was no mistaking the
engine whine and thumping rotor sounds of a helicopter. Not a small
chopper. One of those honking big things meant to scare the crap
out of opponents on the ground. A dark dragon. Gemma smiled.
Reinforcements were here. Ben would be safe for sure. She relaxed
her shoulders and took in a deep breath that froze in her lungs. In
front of them men pushed their way through the undergrowth, coming
at them as if they knew exactly where they were hiding. Two held
automatic rifles high, using them to push through the dense jungle.
A third stumbled behind holding a weapon at his side. Three. She
could fire now. Kill them. The Ruger was small but powerful. It’s
five full-powered .357 loads would take down anything she hit. She
was an excellent shot. Unless those guns pointed in their direction
she would do as told. Not fire unless they were in danger and until
her target was close.

The men halted five feet away. The stumbler
fell to his knees panting, grasping his shoulder. The chopper’s
high-powered searchlight swept over the men. Gemma zeroed in on the
red stain at the kneeling man’s shoulder and the two-foot-long
machete he carried.

“
Levantate. Vamos.”
One of the men
standing tugged on the man’s uninjured arm, urging him to get up
and get moving.

“No. No,” the stumbler gurgled and pushed the
hand away. As the helicopter’s light made another sweep he leaned
forward, coughed, spit, and raised his head. Gemma’s eyes were the
last thing he saw.

They only had seconds before one of the men
would fire into the space. “Move,” she shouted, afraid the .357’s
blast would have affected Walsh’s hearing. No need. He was already
moving, swinging and hacking the machete Bambi left. He gripped her
shirt, dragging her clear as an AK cut lose. Her trailing leg was
peppered with fragments of the log they’d been sitting on. Gemma
stumbled and Ben steadied her. T
he prominent,
unmistakable sound of
an AK-47 stopped, replaced with a
metal against metal friction of a clip being released.
A
reload.
“Run,” she yelled. He hesitated. “Go. I’m right behind
you.” He didn’t need to be told twice.

Another burst. The second man fired while the
first reloaded. Walsh cut to the right. She pancaked, low-crawled a
few feet, rolled, raised the gun and fired, dropping the man. At
the same moment Walsh appeared, ready to bring the machete down on
the man. What the fuck did he think he was doing? “Get down,” she
yelled and scrambled to her feet. Walsh dutifully dropped and she
prepared to fire at the last man.
Who was no longer there.
She double-handed the Ruger, raised it to her chin, moving side to
side searching.

“There are two rifles here,” Walsh called
out.

The man wasn’t armed. Gemma sensed movement
behind her. She twisted, fired, and missed as a machete brushed her
hair. She continued her turn, powering up her left arm and
connecting with the arm holding the wicked blade, shoving it back.
She slammed her shoulder into the man and they went to the moist
ground with an ouff, legs tangled, rolling.

He came out on top of a roll, his hand
wrapped around the wrist of her gun hand, shaking, preventing her
from putting a round in him. She did her own preventing, gripping
his wrist, fending off a swinging machete. He was wild-eyed,
babbling, his spittle spraying her face. Enough of this shit. She
head-butted him. It hurt like hell but he released his grip and
flinched back enough for her to wedge a knee between them and lever
him away. She rolled, took a knee ready to fire and . . .
fuck
, he was gone. Disappeared like a jungle rat. The gun
battle resumed, making it impossible to hear him. She saw Ben
coming her way. “Run. Get away. I don’t know where he . . .”

The man exploded from the jungle. She fired.
A metal against metal ching rang out and the machete hit the ground
with a muted thud. She went to her feet. The scumbag made a
guttural sound and was on her. Hands around her throat, fingernails
digging into her flesh, forcing her back. The jungle snagged her
clothes and scraped her skin. She brought the Ruger up to fire.
Vines tangled around her arm as if they were alive, snatching the
gun and it was gone.
Fuck
. She palmed his face, sticking
fingers up his nose. He tightened his grip. The fucker fought with
the superhuman strength that came from sampling the goods. She
fought with everything she had, punching him over and over. He
tightened his grip. Her boot tangled in roots and she went down
with him on top. In her peripheral vision she saw Walsh coming
toward them. “No.
Run.
” She tried to yell but the words were
choked back to nothing more than a feeble croak. The strung-out man
was astride her, blindly pummeling. She elbowed his face, bucked
him, but he kept on. She went for his balls and squeezed. He howled
and fell to the side. She was free and scrambled to her feet
backpedaling. When she gained a few feet between them, she took a
knee to free the Ka-Bar from her ankle scabbard. Before she could
release the knife he was on her again growling and hissing like a
mad dog. They fell backward into dark water. It wasn’t deep, maybe
three feet. She could feel the bottom but he’d landed on top of her
and had a firm grip on her throat, holding her head under. She
wedged a hand under his chin, forcing him back allowing her to gulp
in a couple of breaths before he was able to push her back under.
This time she didn’t fight him for release, she went for the knife.
Her lungs begged to breathe as she tore at her leg to free the
blade.

The helicopter lights swept over,
illuminating the water to an unearthly green, reminding her of
another accident when her flashlight cast a similar glow in the
water. Another sweep. A gray fog replaced the green glow clouding
her consciousness. Her body gave in and she stopped struggling. Her
mind resisted. It was her job to rescue those in peril. Ben was in
peril. No matter what she’d told him he was her first priority.

Fight, Gemma.
You’ve never given up
before. Your job isn’t over.
She forced the gray fog away.
Your job is to protect Ben
. Like a Chinese gymnast, she bent
and twisted until her hand made contact with the knife’s handle. It
came free and with everything she had left she plunged the blade
into the dark form above her once, then twice. Still he held on.
The fog was winning. Consciousness faded. She found the energy to
slam the blade into him again, twisting and pulling, feeling the
resistance of muscle and bone. Finally, finally, he let go and fell
away, the knife buried in him. Gemma pushed to her feet, breaking
the surface gasping, choking, spitting, flinging her arms
defensively, preparing to be attacked with her own knife. A hand
circled her arm and she rounded ready to fight.

“It’s okay,” Ben said. “They’re all
down.”

She huffed in huge gulps of H
₂
O,
waiting for the low oxygen fog her body was experiencing to clear.
Her attacker floated on his back, motionless beside her. Her Ka-Bar
in his thigh and a good portion of his head gone.

“Sounds like it’s over,” Walsh said, flinging
away the machete he’d used to kill the man. He was right. Gemma
listened. There was only a ringing in her ears and shouts to drop
weapons. Ben wrapped an arm around her and together they staggered
to solid ground, where she went down, bringing Ben with her. Before
they could get to their feet, Hunter crouched in front of them.

“Either one of you broken or leaking?” he
said urgently.

Ben said, “No, but . . . Gemma . . . The
admiral.”

“Fine.” She waived a hand and coughed. “Be
okay.”

Hunter stood, grabbed a fistful of Ben’s
shirt, hauling him to his feet, pulling him away from her.

“What the fuck?” Ben tried to break Hunter’s
grip. “Gemma. She . . .”

“She said she was okay,” Hunter said, not
slowing.

“What the hell is going on?” Ben said, his
arm up to protect his face from whipping branches.

“The lieutenant took a hit in his leg. It’s
the femoral.”

Ben quickened his step to match Hunter’s.
“Jesus.” He could bleed out in a few minutes. “Hurry. Not much
time.”

Ben and Hunter came on Vegas sprawled on his
back, not moving, Bambi crouched beside him spreading the contents
of a medical pack across his torso. The lieutenant’s pant legs had
been ripped away and a flashlight illuminated his wounds. “Shit,”
Ben said. This was more than a hit. The SEAL’s right thigh looked
like a grizzly had been feeding on it. Ben dropped to the ground
beside him. The metallic smell of blood mixed with jungle smells
was stomach-turning.

“It’s a vein and the artery,” Bambi said
without looking up. Hunter stripped off his vest and placed it
under Vegas’s foot for elevation. “He took at least five. Got a
tourniquet on. Applying pressure but . . .” He didn’t need to say
any more. Blood wasn’t seeping from the leg, it was spurting like a
water fountain with each beat of the man’s heart.

Vegas rested a hand on Bambi’s arm and said
something, his voice too low for Ben to hear.

“Told you man, save your breath. No talking,”
Bambi said.

Gemma half crawled, half stumbled to them,
and the moment she knelt next to Hunter he jammed a flashlight into
her hand. “Keep it on the leg.”

“Dear God,” she said, positioning the
light.

“Antiseptic,” Ben demanded.

“No time. Find that fucking bleeder and tie
it off,” Hunter said.

“One of you open that saline bag and dump it
on the wound. Wash the blood away so I can see what the hell I’m
doing,” Ben ordered. Without hesitation Bambi slashed open the bag
and squeezed it over the wound, washing the blood away, if only
briefly.

Gemma held the flashlight with both hands and
braced her elbows on her thighs to keep the beam from bouncing. Ben
pushed his hand into the wound, searching the mutilated flesh for
the spurting artery.

“I hear boat engines,” Gemma said.
“Ours?”

God, let there be medics aboard,
Ben
prayed.

“Yes.” Hunter had a large knife cutting away
the lieutenant’s sleeve. “You ready?”

“Ready for what?” Ben didn’t look up. He
pushed his fingers deeper into the wound, amazed Vegas wasn’t
howling with pain.

“Not you.
Bambi.
We’re doing a
transfusion.”

“What?”

Ben looked up to see Hunter wrapping a tube
around his arm. “Transfusion will keep him going until we can get
him to the ships.”

“Stop . . .” Ben looked at Vegas, stunned he
was able to speak with the blood loss he’d suffered. “Don’t . . .
want . . . old man blood,” Vegas said.

“Why?” Ben looked from Vegas to Hunter. “Are
you compatible blood types?” He was willing to go along with any
and all heroic lifesaving measures, but incompatible transfusion in
these conditions was crazy.

“Afraid . . . of getting . . .” Vegas coughed
and Bambi put a hand under his head, raising it up slightly.
“Sagging balls . . . like Hunter’s.”

“Jesus, how much of that morphine did you
give him?” Ben said, not amused.

“Not fucking enough,” Hunter shot back.

Bambi and Hunter worked quickly and quietly.
Light and shadow displays from the sweeping lights of helicopters
and boats created a surreal scene. “Have you done this before?” If
they had they knew what he knew. To keep Vegas from dying Hunter
would have to transfuse all his blood. And it, like the
lieutenant’s, would ooze onto the ground. It was Gemma who
answered. “They know what they’re doing,” she said softly.

Vegas tried to lift a hand. Gemma took it.
“He’s cold,” she said to no one in particular.

“Don’t . . . let . . . him,” Vegas said, his
eyes on Hunter tightening the tourniquet on his upper arm. “Too . .
. late.”

“You let them do what they’re going to do,
baby boy,” Gemma said.

Bambi leaned over him, slapping his arm
looking for a vein. Finding a vein would be a miracle. He’d already
bled out too much.

“Get that flashlight on his leg,” Ben
snapped. Gemma had been distracted talking to the lieutenant and
moved the beam. She brought the flashlight directly over the wound
as his hands navigated the pulpy flesh. “Got the artery. Got it
pinched off,” he said triumphantly.

“Hurts,” Vegas said, sucking in a whistling
breath between his teeth. Gemma locked her gaze onto his.

“I know,” she said softly. “You can do this.
We’re going to take it one second at a time. You can do anything
for a second. I’m tapping the back of your hand, if you can feel
it, move your finger.” His finger moved against her hand. “Good.
I’m going to tap out seconds. Like this.” She tapped against his
fingers. “Every touch means you made it through another second.
Seconds turn into minutes. Minutes into hours. Before you know it,
you’ll be aboard ship. Then on your way home.”

“Don’t . . .”

The lieutenant’s free hand rose and latched
on to Hunter’s wrist. “It’s . . . okay. Tell them.” He sucked in a
breath and groaned. “Tell them I know . . . where I’m going.”