Masters at Arms - By Kallypso Masters Page 0,50

was on fire. He opened his eyes and saw Sarge’s head, or what was left of it, lying on his chest. The man’s bloody brains showed through the hole in his head. Sarge’s body lay prone across Damián’s chest and abdomen. The pool of blood forming on Damián’s chest felt warm. What the fuck?

A roaring in his ears merged with high-pitched screams. Then he realized the screams were his.

“Madre de Dios! No! Sarge, don’t you fucking die!”

He knew Sarge was gone, but kept yelling at him as if he could bring him back by the sheer volume of his voice. He looked up and watched as Grant and Wilson, on either side of him, lifted Sarge off him. Damián turned his head away, watching in horrific fascination as Sarge’s blood ran down the rooftop toward Damián’s feet, where it mingled with another pool of blood. The one forming around his own mangled foot.

What the fuck?

“Corpsman up!” Wilson called.

How could that be his blood? He didn’t feel the burning pain in his foot anymore. As he stared, the image blurred. A wave of dizziness caused his stomach to lurch. He was going to lose his MRE. His head slumped back against the warm concrete.

Serious fucked up shit. Was he going to die here? Dreams of returning home and finding Savannah faded. The sun disappeared into a cloud. Sudden blackness. Damián closed his eyes.

Such a fucking wasted life.

* * *

“Corpsman up!”

Shit. Marc heard the call come from the rooftop of the building across the street. Holed up in the make-shift command headquarters, he grabbed for his pack and a litter.

“We’ve got your back, Doc,” Master Sergeant Montague yelled, then he and several other grunts moved into position near the doorway and windows with their rifles leveled at the buildings where they suspected insurgents were still hidden. Marc ran out of the abandoned house toward the one across the street where the recon team had been staked out for the last couple of hours.

The rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire echoed behind him and from a nearby building as he zigzagged across the street. He dodged the bullets stirring up sand and dust around him. Lucky for him, the stairway to the roof on the outside of the building had a high cement wall he could crouch behind as he made his way upstairs.

When he reached the roof, he stuck his head around the corner to assess the situation. Two Marines down, two upright. Marc stayed low as he crossed the roof and hunkered down beside the one with the worst injuries. A quick check of Sergeant Miller’s nonexistent pulse and the damage to his head told him he needed to focus his efforts on the other one.

Two grunts crouched nearby over this one. Orlando. Fuck, no! Grant had a white-knuckled grip on the wounded man’s hand. His buddy’s boot—and foot—had been blown clean off, leaving a bloody stump of bone, tissue, and an exposed artery. Losing blood fast.

Shit. Don’t you die on me, Orlando!

“Orlando! It’s Doc. You’re going to be fine.”

The man opened his pain-filled eyes, clenching his teeth to keep from screaming. Sweat broke out on the younger man’s forehead. Marc put on his gloves and pulled a tourniquet from the bag. Orlando groaned and tried to raise his head to see the damage.

“Keep his head down!” Marc ordered Wilson and Grant. The last thing he needed was for Orlando to see his foot and sink into shock.

Even though Marc was seven years older than Orlando, he’d connected with the man during training at Pendleton. Orlando had been so damned serious. Marc had loved finding ways to get him to lighten up. The kid also had a huge chip on his shoulder back then. He’d acted like the whole damned world was against him. It had taken the Corps a while to knock that shit out of him, but you couldn’t ask for a better Marine. Marc had been impressed by the strength and courage the man had shown. He was one of the best sharpshooters in the unit, which is probably what landed him on this rooftop in the first place.

Marc applied the tourniquet and bandaged the bloody stump.

“Grenade came over the wall,” said Wilson, holding the kid’s forehead. “Orlando and Miller saw it first. Orlando shoved Grant and me away. Sergeant Miller took the brunt of the explosion.” Wilson looked over at Miller and closed his eyes tightly.

The sergeant was the first fatality the recon unit had suffered. Marc had learned to