The stream of patients finally thinned down to nothing around then. “Let’s think about packing it in,” Albright said.
Jack took a look at his watch and discovered it was coming up on 2100 hours local. They’d been working for ten straight hours, but the exhaustion didn’t hit him until he did the math.
He tuned back to the logistics band, and was just about to make the call when a loud burp like a hail of automatic gunfire sounded from the hills. The initial burst was followed by a handful just like it, each weaker than the one before.
The weary corpsmen throughout the camp snapped to attention. “What the hell was that?” Nikitin barked. “Since when is this a combat zone?”
Jack switched back to the report channel and hurried messages from firefighters flooded his ear.
”…some type of small community. Musta missed it.”
”…could be a weapons stockpile. Debris everywhere…”
“Survivors. Fifty, maybe a hundred. Hard to tell. Some badly injured. Send medevac.”
“Barrier broken at section twelve. Need immediate air support. I repeat, need air support!”
Jack clicked the headset back off with a sigh. He didn’t need to hear anymore. “Grab a fast bite and a cup o’ joe, Bravos. More work on the way.”
It didn’t take long for leviathans laden with new refugees to return from the hills and start unloading. Men, women and children painted in a mixture of soot and ash stumbled out of the cargo bays, while the rest were carried out on stretchers. All three med stations, almost empty just moments before, now had more work than they could handle.
Injuries were more severe: third degree burns and the kind of wounds Jack had only seen near combat. Bullet holes from small and large caliber rounds, flesh shredded by flak, whole limbs missing in some cases. The orange jumpsuits were soon painted in an even coat of blood, making them hardly distinguishable from the patients in their care.
The work became a blur. There were no patients anymore, just wounds. Jack was applying a beige pseuderm bandage to a badly bleeding arm whose owner occasionally grunted from the pain. The patient was a tough customer just as they’d all been. Then Jack felt a tap at his shoulder and heard his name, and it snapped him out of the trance.
Standing behind him was young Skip Walters with concern all over his face, and behind Skip, a mother and daughter. The little girl’s face was so dark with soot that her bright eyes seemed to glow, and even though her shoulder had a deep gash in it, she wasn’t crying. She looked lost, and was shaking like a leaf in the cool night air.
“Jack, these people…”
“What!” Jack barked, in no way a question. He was tired. It was late. There was work to do, and his fuse was dangerously short.
Skip motioned to his upper arm, then pointed to the mother. “The tattoo. These people are separatists, Jack.” He leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “Terrorists.”
When the last word came out, Jack went on autopilot. His hands finished applying the bandage while he stared at Skip with cold eyes. “Nikitin, help the girl,” he growled, and his fingers latched onto the new corpsman’s collar.
He strode out of the tent dragging Walters stumbling behind him into the darkness. His pace quick, his skin on fire, Jack slammed Walters against a titanium supply crate and punched it hard with his free hand. The wall rang like a hammered gong. His grip moved from collar to throat.
“Remember this because I only tell you once. The Corps helps everyone the same. Everyone! If you ever hesitate to help anyone again… if I see you even think about it, I’ll God damn kill you myself. Are we clear, Corpsman?”
“Yes sir,” Skip croaked. His eyes were wide with fear. Both men’s hearts were racing at full speed.
Jack took a deep breath. His grip loosened, and he straightened the young corpsman’s collar. “Now get back in there and do your damn job.”
Skip took off running with a fire under his heels, two parts fear and one part shame driving him. He wouldn’t need to be told again. The kid would probably make it, Jack hoped, get with the program and fly right. Maybe even make a good corpsman some day. His first day had been a bad one, though.
Then Corpsman Jack Hernandez, knuckles bleeding and muscles burnt, turned and headed back into the massacre. San Jose Bravo Brigade worked long into the next day.
Chapter 3:
Snake Oil
The Global Aerospace Foundation’s main campus was a huge complex covering two square kilometers outside of Bangalore, India. The architecture married gothic and high-tech, with great swooping roofs that gave the impression of the buildings themselves reaching for the distant stars. To Marcus Donovan, it was a modern day revival of renaissance cathedrals, pure pomp and self-importance, evoking the immeasurable vastness of space and by comparison, man’s own insignificance. Other times, he just thought it was huge and ugly.
The main doors were on the eastern side, surrounded by a half-circle of stone columns arrayed as a sundial. They tracked the sun’s daily and yearly journeys through the sky, a simple reminder of Earth’s endless whirling journey through space.
Beyond that sat a sunken courtyard with a black memorial wall, inscribed with the name of every human being known to have perished in space exploration. The monument was inspired by the Vietnam Memorial still standing in old Washington DC, and oddly, both monuments were made of granite from the same Bangalore quarry less than ten kilometers away.
As usual, Marcus passed the wall without pausing, and promised himself he’d stop and read the names next time. It was always next time.
Leaning heavily on a metal cane, he limped past the wall, through the towering columns and headed straight for the automatic glass doors. He was thankful for that last detail. His tours in space were growing longer and more frequent, and that coupled with his natural aversion to exercise made every return to gravity more difficult—more painful—than the last. This time, he’d endured two weeks of physical therapy after touchdown, and his legs still felt like chewing gum in July. He wouldn’t be walking at all without the cane, and normal everyday doors were more trouble than he cared for.
As he limped up to doors, the GAF emblem loomed above. It was a circular seal with shape that could have been a great red bird soaring to the stars. He wasn’t sure, really. The design was terribly abstract, and the bird could as easily have been a spaceship, a boomerang, or man’s indomitable will to greatness. It was anyone’s guess.
The foundation’s motto was written in golden letters around the seal, reading “Ab terra, ad infinitum et ultrum.” Marcus failed high school Latin, but he was pretty sure that meant, “From Earth, to infinity and beyond.” He often wondered if a certain cartoon studio paid for the product placement, and that thought always put a smile on his face, no matter how onerous the task before him.
This time was different, though. Utterly unique. Usually, Marcus was there against his will, bureaucratically kidnapped in order to give seminars about his methods, or appear before this board or that committee to explain himself. Not this time. No, Marcus had a plan, and had pulled in favors from every corner of the Foundation for an opportunity to sit in on the Budget Oversight Committee’s monthly meeting.
That didn’t stop him groaning on his way in.
The interior was as unfriendly as the exterior, and largely empty as a final proof that its construction was all pretense without purpose. Marcus thought symbolic of the culture of waste that had crippled the Foundation for decades, and he ground his teeth while calculating how many exploratory missions could have been funded on the cathedral’s budget. If he had his way, the Foundation’s bureaucracy would be pared down to two dozen full time accountants who would meet once a week at an all-night diner, but he thought that dream a little far fetched, even for him.
