“You agreed not to share any information…”
“And you agreed to give me anti-aircraft missiles, Zevitin,” Mohtaz interjected. “Break your promises further, and we are finished. Your infantry and tanks can rot in Turkmenistan for all I care.” And at that the connection was broken.
“Easy now, lass, you’re hurt. Don’t move, eh?”
Captain Charlie Turlock opened her eyes…and immediately what little vision she had was shattered in a cloud of stars as the pain shot through her lower back, up through her spine, and into her brain. She gasped, the pain doubled, and she cried aloud. She felt a cool hand hold her forehead. “My God, my God…!”
“Believe it or not, lass, you shouting in pain is music to me ears,” the man said, his thick Irish brogue slowly becoming clearer and soothing in a way, “because if you were’na cryin’ out so, I’d believe your spine was broken. Where does it hurt, lass?”
“My back…my lower back,” Charlie gasped. “It feels like…like my whole back is on fire.”
“On fire…that’s funny, lass,” the man said. “I’m na surprised.” Charlie looked at the man in confusion. She could see the stethoscope dangling around his neck now. He was very young, like an older teenager, with closely cut reddish-blond hair, bright green eyes, and an ever-present smile — but his eyes showed deep concern. The glare of a single overhead lightbulb hurt her eyes, but she was thankful that at least her eyes were working. “You might say you’re an angel from heaven…or maybe a fallen angel?”
“I don’t understand, Doctor…Doctor…”
“Miles. Miles McNulty,” the man replied. “I’m na a doctor, but everyone out here believes I am, and that’s good enough for all of us for now.”
Charlie nodded. The pain was still there, but she was starting to get accustomed to it, and found that it even subsided a bit if she moved just so. “Where are we, Mr. McNulty?” she asked.
“Och, c’mon, lass, you’re makin’ me feel old callin’ me by what they call me old man,” Miles said. “Call me Miles, or Wooz if you like.”
“Wooz?”
“Some of the docs gave me the nickname after I got here — I guess I’d get a little woozy seein’ some of the shit that goes on around here: the blood, the putrid water, the injuries, the infant deaths, the starvation, the damned evil that someone can do to another human bein’ in the name of God,” Miles said, his young features momentarily turning hard and gray.
Charlie chuckled. “Sorry.” She was pleased when his smile returned. “I’ll call you Miles. I’m Charlie.”
“Charlie? I know I’ve been here in the desert for a while, lass, but you na look like a ‘Charlie’ to me.”
“Long story. I’ll tell it to you sometime.”
“Love to hear it, Charlie.” He found a bottle in his jacket pocket and shook out some tablets. “Here. It’s just over-the-counter NSAIDs — all the pain medication I dare give you until I do some more tests to find out if you’re bleeding internally or if anything’s broken.”
A large armored hand reached out and completely surrounded the man’s hand — Charlie couldn’t turn her head, but she knew who it was. “I’ll have a look at those first,” he heard Chris Wohl’s electronically synthesized voice say.
“Ah, it speaks,” Miles said. He took his hand and the pills back. Wohl undid his helmet, exercising a kink out of his neck. “Pardon me for saying, bub, but ye looked better with the helmet on,” he quipped, smiling broadly until he saw Wohl’s warning glare. He put the tablets back into the bottle, shook it up, took one out, and popped it in his mouth. “I’m tryin’ to help the lady, na hurt her.” Wohl allowed him to give Charlie three tablets and a sip of water.
“How do you feel?” Wohl asked.
“Not bad if I don’t…move,” she said, gasping through a surge of pain. “I can’t believe we made it.” Wohl’s warning glance reminded her not to talk any more about what they had just experienced. “How long have we been here?”
“Not long,” Wohl responded. “About an hour.”
“Where’s Three?” Wohl motioned to Charlie’s left. Charlie’s mouth instantly turned dry. The pain forgotten, she followed the big Marine’s glance beside her…and she saw the other Tin Man, Wayne Macomber, lying on another table beside her as if laid out on a funeral bier. “Is he dead?” she asked.
“No, but he’s been unconscious awhile,” Wohl said.
“I asked your comrade here if there’s an on-off switch or latch or can opener to peel him open and check him out — I’m not even sure if it’s a ‘him’ or a machine.”
“We’ve got to get out of here as soon as possible,” Wohl said.
“I think I’d like to give the lass a look, if you don’t mind,” Miles said to Wohl. “Ten minutes to look you over first, eh?”
“Five minutes.”
“All right, all right.” He turned to Charlie, smiling confidently. “I hate to do this while you’re hurting, lass, but it’ll help me isolate the injured areas. Ready?”
“I guess so.”
“There’s a game lass. I’m going to try not to move you too much myself, so try to move yourself along with me as much as you can — you’re the best judge about how much is too much, yes? We’ll start with the head and work our way down. Ready? Here we go.” With surprising gentleness, McNulty examined her head, turning it ever so carefully, stooping down with a flashlight as low as he could go to look behind her head and neck without her having to turn her head as much.
“Well, I’m na seein’ anything sticking out,” Miles said after a few minutes. “You have a fun number of bruises and cuts, but so far nothing critical. I’ve seen much worse around here.”
“Where are you from, Miles?”
“I’m from God’s back porch: Westport, County Mayo.” He didn’t have to specify “Ireland.” “And you?” Charlie turned her eyes away and down, and Wohl changed position — not very much, just enough for everyone to remember he was present and not let the conversation drift into unwanted territory. “Ah, that’s okay, lass, I figured as much anyway. The only whites in these parts are relief workers and spies, and you’re na dressed like a nurse.”
“Where are we?”
“You’re here at Torbat-e-Jam, the United Nations refugee camp, originally set up for the poor bastards fleein’ the Taliban in Afghanistan, and now used by the other poor bastards fleein’ the Muslim insurgents,” Miles said. “I volunteered to help bring in a load of food and supplies about six months ago, but when the doctor’s assistant went missing, I stayed. About a month ago, the doctor went missing — if the Taliban or al-Quds forces need a doctor, they don’t send fer one, they
“Tobat-e-Jam?”
“Iran,” Miles said. “Around here they still call it ‘Iran’—the insurgency hasn’t reached this far yet, so they don’t call it ‘Persia’ yet, although the Revolutionary Guards Corps and al-Quds forces are gettin’ pretty nervous, like the rebels are nippin’ at their heels a wee bit. We’re about sixty klicks from the border.”
“Inside Iran?”
“Afraid so, lass,” Miles said. “About two hundred kilometers from Mashhad, the capital of Khorasan province.”
“God, this is the
“Right here,” Wohl said, without indicating where or what they were really talking about.
“You’re in no shape to go anywhere, lass, and neither is your friend — as far as I can tell, at least,” Miles said.
“I’ll make it,” Charlie said. “How far are we from the crash site?”
